Chambers Papers For The People Vol 9

CHAMBERS’S

PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE

VOLUME IX

EDINBURGH
PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS
1851

EDINBURGet .
PRINTE O BL W. AND R. CHAMBERS.

CONTENTS.

No.
RECENT DECORATIVE ART, o 0. ee ee ee a
ALCHEMY AND TILE ALCHEMISTS, 2. 0.0.0.0... OG
QI Lost LARD~A TALE OF 4,0. 00. 0. ee 0
GERMAN PORTS AND POETRY, . . 0. 0. ee ee 8
TUE DESERTS OF AFRICA, oo. . ee ee le 9
SIGISMUND TEMPLE—A TALE, 6... ee
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS, ©... eee TT

i
/HICHIT--A BIOGRAPHY, s 6 6 6 6 © © es we

PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE

RECENT DECORATIVE ART.

TPO few will a teapot or a cotton-gown suggest itself in the light of a
A work of art; yet, produced on right principles, such things may ^n the
full sense fall within the category. When manufactured in the most uti-
litarian spirit, attention will be expended on their decorative characteristics,
influence exerted thereby. Some tincture of aesthetic aim, in development
of form, colour, surface-design, it is difficult to separate from the results
of man’s mechanical ingenuity: some instinctive endeavour to satisfy the
demands of appeaiance as well as of utility. How truly and how far the
endeavour be fulfilled, depends on the soundness and degree of the vitality
of art generally, among a particular people, or at a particular epoch.

In the decoration of utilities art makcs its tirst appearance—long before
the birth of its independent phases. It thus shows itself among unde-
veloped natidns, even, with few exceptions, the most barbarous. We descend
very low when we find no art at all—neither the rudiments of science in
observation of nature—God’s creation—nor those of man’s own secondarily
creative power. The progress of every nation has probably been, from
xsthetic treatment of articles of familiar use—utensils, weapons, personal
adornments—to architecture, the development of expression and beauty in
buildings, primary objects of utility too; and thence a further stage, in
their decoration by painting and sculpture. Here, we find the origin of
those two fine arts, in all ancient time attaining ripest excellence in asso-
ciation with architecture, in recent having an isolated existence. A cycle
has been completed: from the inability of the lowest savage to the inability
of a confused civilisation. In the intermediate stage, a scmi-developed

l CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR TRE PEOPLE.
A

In modern days, has been scen the anomaly of nations that could
pale a good picture, or carve a poctic sculpture, without possessing an
architecture or any decorative art, in the true sense; without ability to
onstruct a building having its own meaning and beauty, or to adorn
i aimary utensil in a ornamented consistent way. Strangely cnough,

tie of uncultivated nations are more pleasing in effect, more faithful
to pringtples, than any characteristic of existing Europe. The lot of the
former would seem intuitive congruity with nature. The latter has so
far lost itself, as to find it hopeless to realise that sirhple truth obeying
the hand of the half-s savage craftsman.

Passing to the civilised but stationary nations of the Kast, and their
more advanced art, occurs similar exemplification of happy excellence, of
singleness of aim, and simplicity of execution, ‘The consistent beauty
and truth, in colour and pattern, of a Persian carpet, a Cashmere shawl,
and in harmony of form, hue, general effect, of a piece of Chinese porci
lain, are familiar, and have originated copyism more or less successful.

Among those nations of antiquity since extinct or degenerate- —Egypt,
Assyria, Etruria —like facility and truth of decorative art are attested Ly
existing remains, as accompanying high attainment in universal art, in
architecture, sculpture, painting.

In Greece, accompanied, in its famous pottery preceded, by Etraria, and
followed ina lower by Rome, consummated beauty succeeded to the less
intellectual stages. Greece realised a catholic manifestation of all the ats,
each in unexampled perfection; witha consonant refinemeut of the arts
decorative. Jt has been only approached, before or since, in the mediavel
time. ‘These two epochs—-the Grecian and the medi yal—stand alone, for
a uniwersal application, after their separate manners, of true art. and a
universal reaching, not only, as among the Orientals, of vitality, but also
of a peculiarly elevated standard. In every direction, however, medieval
Europe did not attain parallel exccative excelicnec. The period Gothic
spirit ruled intact was not long cnough for this. That department—-
pottery—through the abundance of remains, specially characteristic with
us of antiquity, an application of art to utilities, elevating this to a par
with art's highest manifestations-—happens to be far from prominent ip
the mediæval] cra: one undeveloped till the ‘ Revival,’

At the ‘Revival,’ the legitimate principles of Christian art became first
blended, then lost, in those of alion models. Under the new conditions
of the pseudo- classicism of the sixteenth century, decorativesrt continucd
to he ad by very full life. Jn some provinces it, in Italy and Ger-
pany, was prosecuted by artisis—Benvenuto Cellini, Albert Durer, &e. -
whose works yet maintain their renown for exceeding beauty ef cxeculiou
and of fecling. Throughout the seventeenth century similar vitality lingered,
but in still less purity. During the ecighteeuth century it gradually ex-
pired; asstuning in England the stiff forms of the time of Queen Anne, and
elsewhere such perverted phases as the Louis Quinze. Barly Jouis
Quatorze itself was to medieval ornament what in archite ture Elizabethan
was to Gotlic—the vigorous distortion of that once art.

Throughout these changes of form, the Gothic spirit may be recognised
surviving indirectly. After the final loss of the remuants of the old
spirit late in the last century, commenced that indiscriminate eclecticism,

2

$

RECENT DECORATIVE ART.

an reproduction, come to a height in, the present practice of ornamental
art, as of architecture. Grecian, Gothic, Byzantine, Oriental, Renaissance
—all are copied. The same jumbling of principles has come to pass, as
of styles; forgetfulness of those varying fundamental laws governing the
pursuit of nature in every phase of art. We moderns have evidently
something to say here, could we but find the way. The multiplicity of
models is our perplexity; the way so sadly confused: a confusion as of
Babel, worse confounded, by lack of grammar in each separate tongue.

These losses are shared by all Europe. In some Oriental nations deco-
rative art still survives, ‘ decrepit, but not insane.’ One difference exists
between the leading contineutal nations and ourselves—the more cultivated
exceutive skill of the latter. Their hold of principles, the essential vitality
of their design, are no greater. They contrive no more than we to express
anything of their own. But what they do say, they say grammatically.

In England, art, after a space of utter inanition, revived in a piecemeal
fashion; one isolated fragment or so at a time. ln continental Europe, an
artistic tradition had never died out. Direct remembrances of the Gothic
system here and there lingered. The lineal succession was, in a material
sense, always maintained. An education of producers, artisans and
designers, and of consumers, existed under one form or another from the
Gothic time downwards. And as one result, industrial artists have never
there been degraded into mere mechanical servants, of manufacturers almost
necessarily ignorant of art. When, during the cighteenth century, the
medieval system of guilds aud appremiceships had become extinct—when
machine-work began to compete with hand-work—academics, Schools of
Design, in the end, public exhibitions, were substituted. By these was

suxtaine’! the executive facility of the artisans.

In Englund, no substitution was made. Things were left to take their
own course, ts always left here, in matters of government. The new system

silentiy undermined ‘the old. Machine-work {ook more and more the place

of hand-work. The education of the factory superseded that of the work-
shop That of the workshop grew more and more mechanical, less and
less artistic. Design separated itself from art-workmanslip. No means
were provided for ‘Tight culture of either. At last, things hkaviny talen
their course, arrived at sneha pass, after England, by gigantic mechanical
movements creating & manufacturing SYS stem for the world, saw itself in
danger of losing its regal share in the results, through inferiority in all
wherein design had part. In one direction, paper-hangings, where it had
had the superiority, it imported in the ratio of former exports.

Fitteen years ago, people awoke in a fright; the government itself, at
the eleventh hour. A committee of the Housc sat. Schools of Design
were tc be established. In 1837 the head-schvol was set agoing at tie
public exponse; followed hy branch ones in the provinces, in part dependent
on local contributions. As yet, it is hard to find a manufacturer attribut-
ing any sensible personal advantage to this step.

General attention has been unprecedentedly aroused. It has shown itself
in many ways. Six years ago, the‘ Art-Journal’ testified to the importance
of the arts decorative, by including them within its scope. Three years
later, au association of the endeavours of some leading artists, with those
of enterprising manufacturers, commenced through the ageney of ‘Felix

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

Summerly.’ Last year (1849), a periodical, the ‘ Journal of Design,’ was
successfully established, .specially devoted to industrial art; comprising
original papers, and notices of new productions in textile manufacture, in
the metals, pottery, &c.; with illustrations and actual textile specimens.
Its tone of criticism has been of an advanced and eminently -intelligent
order.

Above all, the popular interest has been quickened and educated by the
exhibitions which have so rapidly gained ground. These have introduced
the producers to the public. Manufactures, of which the results are scat-
tered among all, had before been almost unknown in their general bearings.
On the continent, national exhibitions had long prevailed: in France, since
1798, recurring at irregular intervals down to 1819, from which date quin-
quennial. In England, small special exhibitions had occasionally taken
place at Birmingham, Glasgow, &c.; and more continuously at Dublin.
The first attempt at a comprehensive representation of British mannfacture
was the bazaar of the Anti-Corn-Law League in 1845. It was followed
by an exhibition independent of political ends at Manchester, in 1846;
and by those of the London Society of Arts, commencing in 1847. This
society early took a prominent and laudable position m the movement.
Finally, we have repetitions of former experiments at Manchester; and
the very splendid display of Jast year at Birmingham. These things have
paved the way for that grand scheme, the cynosure of all immediate hope
in industrial design—-an Exhibition of the Industry of All Nations in
1851: due to Prince Albert and an intelligent party in the Society of Arts.

Such realisations are rather the result than cause of the general move-
ment. Had no new interest arisen in the public mind, they could not have
existed, far less have had a widespread influence. The ready response
each scheme has met proves how much was latent. JExhibitions—Fclix
Summerly’s art-manufactures—Schools of Design—all are witnesses of the
feeling which, consonantly with the spirit of the age, had silently taken
root in the public mind, amid the neglect of the ‘constituted authorities ;’
necessitated by the vast and growing importance of the interests con-
cerned, and the changes in the governing conditions of production and
design.

In the practical employment of design, what with recent public interest,
and awakened manufacturing zeal, advances have been made during the
Jast ten, and still more six, years. A new sense of their position has
arisen among manufacturers; due to the new demand from the public. The
present public has, with all its deficiencies, a vague dcsire for something
good. ‘The manufacturers soon feel this, in the competition with forcign
and other rival producers, and must meet it. The immense commercial
importance of design, with its daily operating influence on the choice of
purchasers, forces itself on their notice. To the previous torpor, a general
quest after decorative effect of some kind has succeeded; fulfilled by fair
means or foul, original design, or piracy of the ideas of others.

The sense of deficiency, the mere attempts at art, even without immc-
diate success, are promising. We doubt not the final attainment, with
awakened attention, of that executive facility, and correct representation

, of nature, constituting present French superiority. The distance is not so
E” as it appears. Itis art-workmen our manufacturers need, even more
wer 4

RECENT DECORATIVE ART.

than training in the designer; workmen capable of executing the design
with artistic intelligence. These things will come with time and zeal. The
demand is pretty sure, in England, of securing the supply when, materially
speaking, feasible. Within the memory of man the reproach of inability
to ‘draw’ has been removed from our school of painting. A curious fact
is the superiority of English higher art, parallel with equal inferiority in
the subordinate phases. The former was earliest to cmerge from the
general prostration. Till lately art, as a result of the modern piecemeal
manifestation of it, had long been understood to mean this or that of its
leading developments. We are now beginning to understand that art (for-
mative) is not painting, is not sculpture, merely, but a much larger matter,
embracing, with architecture as the mistress, every department of technic
production, on the results of which esthetic meaning may be impressed.

Lessential progress, in the true, to us half-ideal, practice of design; in
obedience to fundamental principles; in a consistent language of our own;
is not readily to be made. It will long, we fear, continue beyond the
reach of England and of Europe. The real advance of the age, and of
England distinctively, is circumscribed to the technic arts, their abridged
processes, their enlarged results; to that colossal extension of utilitarian
attainment, of the facilitating services of nature, which has made the time
a nervel to itself. In the strictly mechanical phases it has been one
system of progress. Machinery has developed a before-undreamed life;
has lifted its arms of might, aud donc its wondrous work ; realised its store
of comforts by the million in the place of Insuries by the score. But the
eloquence to have been impressed on its work has not been added. Dumb,
inarticulate, is its outward appeal; or worse, lying, distorted; putting on
semblance of alien life, instead of the revealment of its own. For, as
already said, we cannot avoid some attempt at decorative effect. Whether
it he genuine, or idle and inane, is then a consideration well to study.
In the ezsthetic province there has been entirely wanting the vitality which
should have turned to account the mechanical gains of the age, and
cduced expression of that sphit surely pervading them. «

The modern conditions of design are distinct from any previous; they
demand equally novel fultilment. For hand-work, we have machine-work ;
for an ornamental idea lavished on a single example, infinite multiplication,
hy engraved plates, blocks, cylinders; by punches, squeezes, moulds, types,
dies. For that highest value of art-working, the living ‘ evidence of human
care and thought and love,’ reigns the ‘blind accuracy of the engine.’
But the evidence of human thought, though banished from the execu-
tion, may pervade in the fullest measure the idea. The absence of direct
executive human labour may be met by ani appropriate decorative system.
The extent to which multiplication is carried is peculiar to modern time.
The multiplication itself is no novelty. The coins of the ancicnts exem-
plify the artistic excellence transmissible through a mechanical medium.
The substitution of the machine for human labour is often made with no
commensurate result : a mere superfluous triumph over difficulty, or tame
imitation of effects proper to the living hand. But the legitimate value of
machinery is high; the extension of the range of decorative art, the general
diffusion of refinements. ‘These are great goods. They are rightly to be
realised through development of an independent character and reality

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

in the multiplied ornament. The cheap, widely-diffuscd bad copy of some
good thing is not, as too often implied, gain—only evil. The cheap, widely-
diffused good substitute, having its own individuality, however restricted,
is unmixed benefit. °

Separation inevitably prevails, of designer—the furnisher of the specific
ornament—and practical workman, the reproducer. But the divorce be-
twecn art itself and the secondary agencies is not so absolute. Much
of the effect depends on the latter. Art-workmanship is as important as
art-design, wherever, as in paper-hangings and bronzes, hand-labour is
required in the finishing. And equally so is educated skill in some
middle stages—the ‘putting on’ in textile fabrics—though the final pro-
cesses be wholly mechanical. In some manufacturcs—as casting in iron,
even in these, much depends on the care, guided by intelligence, of the
workmen. The two modes of reproduction are, where partially mochat.i-
cal, as in the above cases; and where artistic skill is, or ought to he,
indispensable throughout. The latter class includes house-decoration,
carving on wood, metal-cutting and chasing, cugraving ou glass, painting
on pottery.

Great and various have heen the technic advances of manufacture: in
material, processes, new applications of mechanical power. In tertile manu-
facture, within a century, a whole branch of trade we find created, in
cotton, and progressively increasing. ‘Throughout, it has been systematic
improvement. Foremost, ranks increased facility of production, through the
mechanical discoveries of our Watts, Arkwrights, Cromptons, Hargreaves,
and the colossal application of their steam-power and complex machinery.
Secondly, we have the practical mastery of chemistry, applied to bleaching
and dyeing, to the securing permanency and variety of hue, and exten-
sion of the decorative range. Thirdly, come facilitated processes of print-
ing; the introduction of “metal cylinders, with their new capabilities to
compete with wooden blocks; the engraving the cylinder from the pro-
viously-engraved die; and recently, the printing several colours at once,
‘instead of for each colour a cylinder. Last, we rank modifications vt
fabric, and the consequent creation of new demands.

In the silk manufacture, in England more of an exotic, the usual
enhancement of production through machinery has taken placc; above
all, through application of the French Jacquard-loom.

One manufacture has been created since the beginning of the cen-
tury, by machinery especially complicated in invention: the bubbin-net, or
machine-made lace, now of national importance, producing to the annual
value of more than £3,000,000 sterling. The cheapness here, as in the
cotton manufacture, result and cause of increased production, has been
carried to its utmost. Ever-new improvements in mechanisin have resulted
in a present market-price often 90 per cent. less than that of former days.

In the woollen manufacture, both fabric and dye have advanced.
Worsteds and stuffs have been distinguished by increased production,
and multiplicatién of the kinds of fabric. In the finer sorts, merinos,
we now rival the French. In shawls, the beautiful Oricntal manu-
facture has been imitated and superseded ; and the men of Paisley
« have ‘kept pace with those of Lyons. Carpets have in fabric and dye

„undergone manifold transmutations; terminating with the economised
6

RECENT DECORATIVE ART.

application of dye and extension of the scale of colour of the tapestry-
carpets; and the recent application of printing, successful as to first
cost-cheapness.

In paper-hangings we have recently, facilitated production through
machinery, improvements of material in increased length of piece, of
texture and surface of the finished article, and of colour, its effect and
durability.

Among the metals, zron has made the greatest stride. By development |
of the system of casting, so characteristic of modern manufacture, « revo-
lution has been effected. For ornamental works on a large scale, as gates
and screens, its facility of production has commanded acceptance. In its
application to furniture—bedsteads, tables, and smaller articles—besides
its previous employment for grates, stoves, &c. an opening of indefinite
capability has heen commenced. For constructive purposes, it has made
way to an extent only perhaps the germ of a new architecture. For
supports, trusses of roofs, balconies, its strength and cheapness have
already becn of great value. ,

The universal adoption of pottery for domestic use dates within the last
half century. At the beginning of the eighteenth century it was an insig-
nificant manufacture ; throughout the middle ages it was an incipicnt one.
In the sixteenth century, decorated earthenware assumed some remarkable
phases in Italy, Germany, and subsequently, France. In Italy, during
a period including the sixteenth, and, in less perfection, the seventeenth
century, character and beauty were reached peculiar to the time; and the
surviving remnants of the ware termed Majolica are much prized by the
connoisseur in such matters. The finer kinds of pottery were unknown to
Europe till the beginning of the eighteenth century, when the production
of European porcelain, in imitation of Oriental, arose; and the manufactories
of Dresden, Sèvres, and Chelsea, were successively established. The story
of the great Wedgwood, and the rise of English pottery as a staple branch
of production, is well known. During the latter part of the eighteenth
century, under bis and auxiliary influence, it advanced in charagter and
extent in a ratio unexampled. Both by recourse to chemical science in
improvement and invention of material, and by attention to art new to
English manufacture, Wedgwood signalised himsclf. In the utilitarian
qualities of earthenware—strength, and perfection of glaze—the English
have been hitherto unequalled. In porcclain, for fincness of material,
and combination of impermeability with semi-transpareney, foreign manu-
factures have been rivalled and reproduced. In lustre of huc, some
colours in Oriental china have been unapproached, others excelled. The
scientific pursuit of colour has not been adequately cultivated.

In glass, recent technic advances are confined to the development of
plate-glass, and its remarkable results in size and clearness; and in flint-
glass, to the purity of the English crystal, parallel with the equally unap-
proached success of continental, above all, Bohemian coloured glass.

Among new materials, or new in their wide extension, pupicr-maché
ranks first. Introduced early in the last century, it had made rapid
advances before its close, in strength, facility of production, and of orna-
mentation ; all much further developed during the present. Its applica-
tions have become indefinitely multiplied. These, and the strength an

7 :

CUAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR TUE PEOPLE.

durability of the finished article, are marvellous, when we consider its
original beginnings, from thin sheets of paper. Its possible durability, like
that of other artificial materials, as porcelain, often rivals or exceeds that
of many natural substances—wood or some kinds of stone. Carton-pierre,
a composition more successfully imitative of stone, is a later introduction.
Of gutta percha, a material not invented, but discovered, the application, and
to the most ornamental and varied purposes, dates within the last few years.
Stamped leather is a manufacture of the middle ages, to which machinery
and new processes have imparted a fresh character and very extended
adaptability. Some materials, literaliy new, are devoted to the reproduc-
tion of works of art: statuary-porcelain, and parian, recent inventions of
the potter’s art; and fictile ivory, a composition of facile production, a
fine kind of plaster of Paris subjected to particular chemical action.

The application of science to manufacture belongs to the nature of every
advance instanced: it is characteristic of the age. Chemistry, above all,
in the hands of the cotton-printer, the potter, the caster in metal, plays
an important part. A signal example of scientific influence is electro-
metallurgy—the process of metallic deposits by electric agency, adapted
for silver-plating, recently for bronzing. Its advantages are eminent, in
the facility, combined with fidelity, of its reproductions, and the integrity
of the deposited surface. Among the fresh applications of mechanism,
whereof the name is legion, that for wood-carving is an independent and
notable one.

Such, then, are the utilitarian acquisitions of the age, and of the last
century of devotion to mechanical pursuits. Thus large and varied is the
material, to which a ‘form and pressure’ is to be imparted by a system of
indefinitely-multiplicd design. Throughout the course we have sketched,
England has been foremost. In those departments—machinery, cotton-
manufacture—-of most important progress, she has been the leading power;
in some secondary ones, as pottery, she has engrosscd the lion's share. We
will now take a summary of design in England, in its bearings to this vast
‘sum of brute-energy, realised by the technic genius of our time.

The importance of textile design, commercially considered, immeasurably
exceeds all other. In most printed and woven fabrics, England commands
the markets of half the world, for quality of material and cheapness; French
design alone competes with us. ‘This very proficiency—the one wanting for
predominance—the English manufacturer once disregarded in his eager pur-
suit of facility of production. The design was reckoned as purely mechani-
_ cal as the rest. Instead of occupying an honoured station, as in France, the
' professional designer was slighted—to a great extent still is—poorly paid,
and worse esteemed. Of this, the fault lies at the door of all concerned—
ithe public and non-educating government included. Barefaced plagiarism
' wag substituted for that good design, not at hand, nor forming part in the
' manufacturer's notion of personal outlay: a system still too favoured; one
of little wisdom. <A design is thus the common property or plunder of all;
instead of securing remuneration to one, gives it to none, or gives it by
chance, in the general scramble. The cost of an original design is itself
trifling.. The getting-up is the main expense; one incurred whether the
vesign be original or copied. And though goad in itself, the copied design

y be, and constantly is, ruincd in the processes of ‘ putting on,’ &c.;

RECENT DECORATIVE ART, >

processes, though more mechanical, requiring artisti ` ‘skill like that of
the designing itself.

Present textile design is necessarily miscellaneous enough ; ; what with
plagiarism, and ill-judged doctoring of plagiarism, the paucit ‘of well:
instructed designers, and the uncertain treatment experienced by them
from manufacturers, ignorant commercial ‘ buyers,’ and a capricious publie: ©
Novelty—novelty is the end to which all efforts are directed. The patterns
of one season are effete long before the next. It is little remembered that -
novelty, far from’a thing good in itself, is positive evil, unless it be also’.
improvement. In the headlong pursuit of this one aim, it is unheeded
whether novel beauty or novel ugliness be attained, so it be indubitable.
novelty—a difficult matter, however. That which passes for it is generally
only a ringing of the changes on some two or three notes; with: imper-
ceptible or unmeaning variations; and occasionally a launch into something |
novel indeed, in barbarous, outré grotesqueness. Of course there is a reason
for this indiscriminate preference of novelty on the consumer’s part, more
deep-seated than the tyranny of caprice itself: the absence of any one
design of pre-eminent excellence, and of a settled style of good designs,
such as pervades goods of Oriental manufacture.

It is in textile manufacture the fullest scope for an independent decori
tive system exists. The conditions of modern reproduction and multi-
plication of pattern by machinery, here prevailing, are so individual to the
age, and the diffusion of the design so unprecedentedly large, there per-
force has been a development more adapted to the exigencies of the case,
than in any other manufacture. Styles, original and appropriate, have
-been worked out. A modern cotton-gown does preserve its character of
cotton-gown, does not ape that of something clse—an architectural facade
or a painted canvas. Even when ugly and unmeaning, the design has
a certain amount of consistency. Often it is very satisfactory.

In most cases, agrecable arrangement of colour is the legitimate effect,
rather than outline. To garments, destined, as they are, to fall in folds
about the person, elaborate displays of drawing are obviously inappropriate.
They presuppose for being seen an impossible surface when the material
is ‘made up.’ ‘The pattern, whether in single colours or not, should :
be composed of general outlines that will lose nothing by transposition
one over the other; not too detailed or precise; and handled, especially '
where numerous colours are used, as the vehicle of colour. In the latter `
relation, the capabilities of textile design have not been fully developed.
The available hues are necessarily limited by technical difficulties, though
continually increased through systematic resort to experimental chemistry.
But the combination of those already used is not understood. The vivid
sense of harmony of colour natural to early or simple nations, so charac-
teristic a beauty of Oriental manufacture still, has been lost. well-
grounded culture which should supply its place is not yet attaiibd, noe
even aimed at, by the producers of English goods.

In printed garment fabrics manufactured for the home-market, maniy“:
true principles more or less consistently prevail. Smallness of pattern is"
one followed to a considerable extent, though not engugh; essential in B“
design consisting of indefinitely-repeated parts. ` These separate features”
peor cure a general whole in which they are lost; not eee tap the

0.

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

person of the wearer, but subordinate to it. Unbroken distribution of
pattern is another attribute contributing to the same ends, not so strictly
obeyed as ‘the former, yet of modified prevalence. Flatness of offect, the
legitimate characteristic of painted as opposed to sculptured surface orna-
ment, especially as applied by a mechanical medium; essential to unpre-
tentious self-consistency; is also unequally adhered to. As regards colour,
the questionable preference of English taste for neutral, undecided tints,
what are called ‘ chaste’ effects, prevents the glare and harsh combina-
tions commonly united to the brilliancy and larger patterns of calicos
got up for the southern and tropical markets. There the very extension
of the scale often educes the more forcibly the incompetence of the English
manufacturer for harmonious use of it. A class of goods affording an
illustration of the legitimate attributes, smallness of pattern and equal
distribution, united to true taste in colour, are the well-known Swiss
muslins ; fabrics it is, for these reasons, a real pleasure to inspect in stock.

Chintz hangings form a class in which the design of the day is by no
means felicitous, evidencing retrogression, not advancement: size of pattern
increased to an ungainly extent, a correspondingly violent and harsh system
of colour, the legitimate characteristics of the material lost.

In silks, the taste of the French is sufficiently celebrated. The English
follow at a distance; much resorting to copyism of French design, and
even regular employment of French designers. The present prevalence
of large patterns, though these are often of much abstract beauty, is far
from correct in principle, for reasons already stated. Too naturalistic a
tendency is also characteristic of the French designs; too ambitious and
irreflective an emulation; that is, of natural objects too little artistic
conventionalising ; a mimicking of nature where the range of representa-
tion is necessarily all-circumscribed. By the reverse system, a weak-
ness can be turned into a source of power, of new and self-consistent
excellence.

Among woven fabrics, in shawls, more beauty is daily encountered than
in any other article of dress. The reason hes in the imitation of the
Oriental models, induced in the Europeans in their successful contest. The
French here, too, won the foremost place in the race. Though their
excellence has been equalled by the beautiful products of British manu-
facture, French design takes the lead, as elsewhere—is in itself an
immeasurable .commercial advantage. According to accustomed subter-
fuges of trade, the best British goods are, as in the case of silks, to a great
' extent sold as French; thus dust is thrown into uninitiated eyes, and

gted slight cast on British manufacture. The subservience of draw-
M armonious colour, and the employment of a restricted, effective
fot outline—outline always analogous, yet variable—as the vehicle
m colour, are very noticeable in the original models, just as in
Oriental carpets. The futility of the European system of novelty-hunting
is’ here made manifest; and the perennial freshness of a thing of beauty.
None, it has been well said, tire of a Turkey carpet, or a Cashmere shawl,
which have ever been essentially the same; who does not of two-thirds of
the cver-Varying apparitions of our European ribbons, or de laines? By
; Systematic adherence to onc good type of ornamentation, the fabricators
of the shawl were enabled to produce beauty ever true, and to develop
wo,

RECENT DECORATIVE ABT. .

all the minor variations of outline and effect. The practice contains a
useful lesson for the Europeans. Fair ladies do indeed complain of the
interminable repetition of the pine. But this is because it has, amid the
customary aimless quest after novelty, been so preposterously ‘obtruded on
them—wrenched from the plan of which it was a part. In the best
Indian Cashmeres and European imitations, this conventional form is simply
the key-note, the ground-work, of other elaborate combinations; lost in
them. In many of the cheaper kinds of shawl now prevailing, as espe-
cially the Barége, rows of these pines, though havihg no use or beauty
save as the medium of colour, and of other forms, stand by themselves
without colour or meaning: the prosaic, senseless parodies of a pure and
beautiful original. A leaven of the fault, the over-definement of the pine,
may enter into the better kinds. The opposite treatment is the ideal of
an original Cashmere. ;

‘The carpet manufacture, like that of shawls, is of Oriental origin. Dur-
ing the last two centuries of rivalry, and with substitution of machine for
hand-work, the Europeans have far enough departed from their models.
While, with their mechanical resources and cheapened results, they have
never equalled the technic value and marvellous durability of the Turkey
carpet, they have established a fundamentally opposite and false plan of
decdration—that of pictures on floors. “In France, the manufacture, con-
ducted on a grand scale in one or two favoured establishments, is, from a
prevailing domestic custom—the retainment of ornamental wood-floorings—
no nationally characteristic one. The French manufacturers have carried
the pictorial system to the most vicious extent, so great and misdirected
has been their ambition. The loss, again, of true principles of colour, is,
through this ambition, the more egregiously manifested; violent, inhar-
monised combinations being freely resorted to. In England, this, like the
other mere recent branches of production, began to gain consideration
at the beginning of the eighteenth century, when the polished, inlaid
wooden floorings had gone out. It continued growing in importance
till the present century, during which very great advances have been’
made in material. The beauty of texture, mossy and velvet-like to look
and touch, characterising the better-class carpets, has its zsthetic as
well as technic value. In general truth of decorative principle there
is little to commend. The so: obvious fundamental condition, flatness
of effect, the marked characteristic of ancient and Oriental decorations
of the floor—the Roman tesselated pavement, the medixval encaustic
tile— the Persian or Turkey carpet—is wholly violated. Fruits and
flowers rounded off into approximate light and shade form the com-
mon stock in trade. Fruits are, in any case, inappropriate te be
trodden cn. Flowers, if represented, should tell their tale, as only
sented, and on the floor, notas on a wall: then they might
gestive and pleasing. On the same terms, similarly conventi:
and with reference to their destination, not denying their purely dederative
nature, other subjects demanding moderate attention from the spectator,
are admissible. Smaliness, simplicity, and equal distribution of pattern,
are indispensable—especially when the greater portion, as in an English
sitting-room, is covered by furniture—for the eye to apprehend the design ;
a part standing for the whole. But sprawling, ‘disconnected pie MoA

CHAMBEBS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

prevail. The cheaper sorts of carpet, having geometric devices, though
not over-burthened with esthetic beauty, often unmeaning and mechanical,
‘are less incortect in. principle than the ambitious, where so much is
attempted, better left unattempted. Flatness and concentration of effect
are wanting in these also. In colour there is great inequality; anything
like the rich harmonies of the Oriental carpets is never approached. But
from the less pretentious, more sober effects, there is a wide range up to
the most glaring, gaudy, and costly. In truth of gradation, matters have
not been mended in the tapestry carpets, with their extended scale of hue.
There is more room to err than in the Brussels carpets, with their half-
dozen colours. The claims of exceeding brilliancy and superficial attrac-
_ tiveness cannot be denied. There has been a parallel development of the
defects of the old carpets—pretentiousness, largeness of pattern, pictorial
attempts at light and shade and roundness of effect.

In most’other woollen fabrics, design, properly so called, has small part.
The male creation of Europe has long discarded decorative aid to its
external appearance; trusting to intrinsic merit, to the sober claims of
mind and pocket, or to the personal charms surviving externa] disadvan-
tages, softened by a kind of prim foppery and neatness of toilet. The
last traditions of taste as to design in its bearing on costume are in the
keeping of the ladies. In the whole male wardrobe, the sole vestiges of
‘decorative art’ are traceable somctimes in the waistcoat and nether-gar-
ment. In the former, there has lately been a movement towards a little
actual decoration. In the latter, the approximation is of the most inarti-
ficial kind—a few neutral colours and a few straight lines, striped or
crossed. > It is an instance of the little thought vouchsafed tó such matters,
that rational meu could be found to walk about with limbs disfigured by a
series of broad, party-coloured bars running at right angles to one another.
Yet the most sane men may have been so seen. Every onc of us, in fact,
was liable to the innocent adoption of this barbarity when it ‘came up,’
and so making a monstrous network of his body. Such lines, not to speak
of their ugliness, destroy the whole character of the human form. All
check-patterns are in themselves, unaided by harmonious colour, mechani-
cal, and devoid of beauty. Ladies seldom fall into such egregious blunders.
They instinctively understand too well the becoming. They are fond of
‘stripes,’ because they assist the effect of height ; though a like result would
belong to the stripe translated into graceful curves. Striped patterns,
wherever occurring in a dress or a paper-hanging, fall under the same cate-
gory with checks as to inherent lack of art or beauty—an.absence of beauty
characterising in general all straight lines, just as distinctively as does its
presence curvilinear ones. The latter form the attribute of every portion

of the byuman form itself: a significant fact. Stripes are more admissible,

ris than checks; being true to thegleading lines of the body, and
gieiagee them, instead of clipping it into fragments. Even in ladies’
dres&here is at present a strong inartistic movement: the recourse to
undecorated garments, ‘ polkas,’ &c. in which all the character is given by,
and half the cost lavished on, the milliner. Fashion is indifferent to this
circumstance; the more or less art, the more or less intelligence brought to
*bear in the satisfaction of her demands, elicited in the toiling multitude.
Unfortunately, the empty-headed tyrant unconsciously sways the destinies,

12

RECENT DECORATIVE ART.

creates or mars the prosperity, not only of the da¢drative arts, but of
manufactures themselves, and of whole classes of human beings. `

To the majority of our day it must seem a puerility to attach impor-
tance to dress, to look for art in such quarters, or concern. oursélves
for the lack of it. Yet real art has been displayed in the costume‘ of all
times and nations save the modern European—the classic, the medieval,
the Oriental. Some distorted attempt at it may. be recognised amid the
shabbiest disguises of humanity of a London crowd. Is it not a point.
worth consideration, whether we practically accept a make-believe, or a
reality, in its way ?—whether we go about labelled ‘ failure,’ ticketted
with nonentity and ugliness, incongruity with nature; wearing the em-
blem of some sordid and inane idea; or whether the decorative symbol
be suggestive and consistent? The dearth of thought, both in producer
and consumer, is here, as cyerywhere, the source of all mistake, and folly,
and loss.

Of other textile manufactures, a few words remain to be said.—First,
as to lacc; a century or two ago a costly rarity, now an every-day
adornment. The grace and delicacy of effect of the material are its legi-
timate and most striking beauties. Independent beauty and coherence
of design are compatible with them. Both in the hand-made and machine-
made lace such real design occasionally occurs. In some of the machine-
made, where something better is attempted than imitation of the hand-
made—a false and vicious system—a style adopted specifically charac-
teristic, there is much to praise in appropriate and pleasing flatness of
effect, and beauty of design based on this attribute; a style essentially
distinct from the thickness and richness of the old hand-made, and having
its own claims. i

In the linen manufacture, designs for damask are at no high standard
with us, either in prevailing decorative ‘ motives’ or special treatment.
Foreigners have the advantage; in design and quality of material. The
manufacturers of two hundred years ago were still more before both.

Pottery is a manufacture not so commercially important as that of fextile
fabrics, nor educing equal activity in design; yet it is one peculiarly
favourable to art. No article produced, however simple, but may evince
decorative treatment, or artistic feeling, in its form at least; art may be
part and parcel of it, so far. And this attribute, form, is often not given
by mechanical agency, but is the direct result of human dexterity.

The decorative constituents are two—form, and surfacc-ornamentation.
The first is the fundamental, imparting the leading character. fn per-
fection of form alone, sufficing beauty may be realised.

We have alluded to the especial glory of Josiah Wedgwood—the union
of improved material and colour, with the devclopment of an’ ithe ele-
ment. The round of théantique forms was exhausted, and ti
aid of that greatest of English or modern sculptors, John Flaxma
It was Wedgwood's misfortune—the inevitable sequence of the” pm
condition of modern design—rather than fault, that as to form, no
more than copyism was done. Nothing better, has been reached since,
only greater license in departure from the antique models and from the
natural standard of beauty. In the esthetic phase, the manufacture has

remained much where he left it, in some points, rather, has retrograded ;
; 13

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

though just ‘lately there has been considerable and laudable activity.
Copies of good things have’ divided sway with copies of bad. - Copyism
“it is, still, which ‘brings in all that’s fair:’ reproduction of the antique or
of Oriental forms. Settled principles of design we have none. We have
no philosophically-artistic study of beauty of form, in one given route;
no independent pursuit of the general principles of esthetic truth of line;
such, as in other times and nations, resulted severally, in antique, in
medieval, and in Oriental art; in the attainment of systems of form, all
gémuine, each distinct from the other, and characteristic.

There are two kinds of acceptable form : esthetic perfection, and expres-
‘sive character. There may, too, be the union of both. In Greece, this
union was, in all art, neatly equal. In the middle ages, character was
the dominant attribute. In Etruscan and Grecian pottery, we have the
deepest, most refined visual melodies, so to speak. In Oriental pottery, and
in mediæval decorative forms generally, we have harmonies, lower, as to
mere esthetic perfection—that definite completeness the Greeks realised
everywhere. Oriental forms are sometimes of mixed truth. The medisval
have equal or even more striking suggestiveness than the Grecian, a pre-
vailing idiosyncrasy, as eloquent and unmistakable as belongs to the archi-
tecture of the time. The natural development of forms, simple, but true in
feeling, in all carly potteries, whether of the rude South-Sea islander, of
the aboriginal Mexican, or the ancient British occupiers of our own land,
is a remarkable fact. In modern forms, reigns mere anarchy, the abrupt
transition from harmony to discords. In the potter's work, pre-eminently,
the intrinsic esthetic claim, as distinguished from that of character, is con-
fined to lines curved and flowing. Such lines prevail in Oriental China;
though straight-lined combinations occur, judiciously managed ; as again,
in all medizval decorative forms, subserviently to those other claims of
which we have spoken. There is in our pottery the ample use of straight
lines, to meet the insatiable rage for ‘novelty ;’ while the curved forms
-of the classic models are often inharmoniously adapted, through mere
"bluntness of taste and the absence of controlling principles.

Still, the adoption, more or less modified, of good models as a basis, has
dictated the general forms of our pottery, to an extent scarce now to be
adequately apprehended. In tea-services, the Chinese gave us not only
the beverage, but the material and form of the vessels to contain it. In
many familiar earthenware and porcelain articles, dishes, plates, &c. the
purpose has dictated the form; with much of that success which obedience
to the demands of utility and common sense, without farther attempt,
‘insures. In the remainder, antique forms have had their all-powerful
infus On the other þand, in all these classes the uħaided fancy of the

og d spasmodic efforts at novelty, have been the fertile source of

Attention to form, however, has*been a welcome feature m
fee progress of the potteries. Our general characteristics in form may
be Wied up as, a lack of any one style of our own, or rule; a conflict
with ‘types uncouth, unmeaning, and contemptible; and a leaven—with
importation from one ‘trustworthy quarter and another—of much that is

or rer ne wee =

“In surface-ornamentation there is less -to applaud. An original or

‘eonsistent system here, too, there is not. Little available for ordinary
- HM +

REGENT DECORATIVE ART.

purposes was to be gleaned from good models. The-examples in ancient
pottery were of too high and costly a description. The Chinese patterns
were nothing without the harmony of hue, of which they were the medium.
Their bad drawing and grotesque features were not in any case desirable
for adoption. The history of English ornamentation of earthenware and
porcelain is in great part a strange eventful series of barbarities: con--
catenations of incongruous objects, and medieys of copyism ; assisted by
primitive drawing and ineptest rendering of nature. The progress lately
made has been unequal. Elaborate mistakes every way, unmeaning come
binations, defiances of nature, abound. The extraordinary part pseudo-
pastorals and inconsistent ‘made-up’ landscapes have played, in this sec-
tion of the furniture of an English home, is well known. They still hold
sway; in conjunction with variations on Louis Quatorze and Quinze,
Moresque, &c.

In earthenware, the ‘ willow’ pattern, now dying out, introduced towards
the end of the last century, is among the most remarkable ever in vogue ;
for diffusion and continuance. Its success was not without cause. No
general popularity is. The pattern, though a mere parody of Chinese per-
versities, had great utilitarian merits: in its equal covering of the surface,
distinct adjustment of design to the separate parts—rim and centre—and
absence of pictorial pretence. Most of the better designs now current,
more correctly drawn, and sometimes -of considerable taste, err in these
particulars—lack adaptation of design to the special purpose. As the
designers have grown more ambitious and ‘artistic, they have become
less attentive to the demands of decoration as decoration. A system of
ornament, properly so called, strictly confined to its decorative office,
assuming to be nothing else, while having in that individual beuuty, is
unknown to the best modern design.

The fashion of aping pictures more or less pervading our manufac-
tured design, shows itself very prominently when we come to the finer,
more costly porcelains. Too much is attempted at once in all modern
decoration. Herein is one secret of the variance in genuine success
attending the Oriental, and the best of the European efforts. The designs
of the Dresden and Sèvres china, when not copies Óf the Oriental, pur-
port to be ‘complete works of art,’ pictures in pottery. They cannot
rival an actual picture, yet miss the effect proper to the material; result:
in being neither one thing nor the other. The Chinese ‘set light and
shade and perspective at defiance;’ but in harmony and vivid beauty of
colour, and due subordination of pattern, produce an effect consistent with
the material, and in itself contenting. In the Dresden and Savres, the `
Oriental harmony is by no means equalled. Just in the mogé j
Attempts of the latter the worst success is attained—the
harsh, false effects. We have triumphs over technical diff
ing enough ; that is all. The English, who have followed t
tures, have not been more successful in development of tru
character or refined colour. But they never have fallen into í: L
gaudiness, the overloading with alien matter, of the more ccstly Sévres;
la sometimes, the material is scarce to be recognised, for gilding and
pretence. |

The vivid feeling for ‘colour gf the Oxigngaingimas pre-eminent here as in
T z ` 15

OHAMBERS'S PAPERS BOR THE PEOPLE.

“thei other manufacturcs. ‘Similar feeling, fresh and living, is to be noticed
$hthe earlier European’ pottery—the: enamelled wares ofthe sixteenth
ygentury, The Majolica, though pictorial rather than strictly ornamental,
and its subjects those. irrelevant classic ones for which a furor then pre-
wailed, was characterised by high æsthetie beauty; sometimes in drawing,
always in colour, with its peculiar rich, brown and golden hues.

The literal English reproductions of Oriental china, of Sèvres, of Dres-
den; are somewhat pitiable. As in other directions, we rival the fabric,
the technic qualities of the foreign article, but servilely affix the foreign
design trade-mark; so as surreptitiously to represent, instead of self
reliantiy, competing with it. The repetition of the mere outward guise,
as well as material excellences of a successful manufacture, is a singular
evidence of ssthctic supineness — of the divorce between tec daig and
esthetic ability. The repetition can, as to art, never have more than a
factitious, second-hand valuc. Where, in articles of show, vases, &e. the
continental products are not imitated, classic design is reproduced.
Etruscan vases, Etruscan and Grecian types of ornament and subjects, in
new applications, have been repeated from Wedgwood’s day downward,
for,modern edification; without reference to the original purpose of these
things, or modern exigencies. ven the beautiful original designs of Flax-
man were at fault in this particular of subject, considering a modern Euro-
pean was addressed, not an ancient Greek. Original design is, however,
under any drawback, a far different, more living thing, than mere copyism.

In our ambitious attempts, then, from the cheapest chimney-ornament
up to the costly vase, we have spoiled pictures and literal reproduction :
beginning with copies of popular sentimental pieces, and ending with the
antique. In some directions advance has been made. Original designs for

. the common wares and ordinary china are encouraged, and are progres-
sive in character. In several, for articles of common use, a leaven of
direct reference to nature has been introduced, started by the: art-manu-

' factures’ of Felix Summerly: reference to nature, of value, as a step in the
right direction, though over-‘ naturalistic’ in these particular instances.

. The new applications of porcelain, for chimney-slabs, tiles, &c. form a
feature ‘in recent movements. ‘They have been successful in eliciting feli-
citous design and novel beauty of effect for purposes where the very
reverse of anything artistic or pleasing had been usual. It were well
should geometric, purely ornamental designs predominate in the slabs
rather than pictures: pastorals, festoons of flowers—scarce appropriate to

_ the vicinity of a fire—and zsthetic abominations, like ribbons and baskets.

aa important auxiliary in the difusion of art are the new inventions of

, tatuary porcelain,’ ‘ parian :’ improvements on the old ‘ Bisque’

orcelain; in appearance approaching marble. They are pre-

ay for still further discoveries, whereby the evils in the pre-
the shrinking of material in the furnace, are to be obviated.
emand has been created for artistic refinement through these
meee the homes of the middle classes. The opening is capable of
meecosned to high account in the cultivation of a purely artistic manu-
iactare: Success depends on two conditions—-the subjects chosen, and

‘their execution. Somé among those selected are of true artistic worth;

k rectally Bell's Dorothea. Many recent terion are the very reverse
A 16 ’

RECENT. DECORATIVE ART. |

of satisfactory. We have copies of French pictures aid statuettes, nob `
deserving wide publication; in’ subject and treatment of a debased style: -
mere sickly prettinesses and sentimentalisms; and nude female figures, .
whose only recommendation ts their nudity, having none of that purity .
of feeling or refinement of beauty alone rendering such representations
acceptable. Instead of profitably-enlarging the influence of the true and
the elevated, as by the Dorothea, the manufacture thus diffuses what is low
in art, as well as poor and depraved in meaning. Unhappily, it would seem
the complexion of public taste itself, as in the case of popular engravings,
which is pandered to. lt were to be wished that not only copies of the best
works of English sculptors should be given, but still more extensively,
original models of them specially commissioned. The nature of the mate-
rial would here be considered; a new opening for art created; and a class
of subjects fostered in sculpture, addressed to the sympathies of our age
and country —a desideratum indeed! On the execution, the workman’s
knowledge and skill, especially in the finishing, depends much of the
final effect. The inevitable difficulties of the process are great. But in `
the niceties, the joining of the separatcly cast pieces, and the like, exists
fair room for improvement: improvement only to come through the
education and more refined feeling of the workman. .

The revival of encaustic tiles for churches, public buildings, the halls
of private houses, has been successful; in the mechanical process and
decorative constituents. The admirable Gothic models, true to principle
in flatness of effect and simplicity, have been reproduced. Geometric
patterns prevail. Jt would be gain if this beautiful manufacture super-
seded the modern one, strong in its cheapness, of floor-cloth: a disagree-
able material; the desigas ordinarily devoted to it still more unsatisfac-
tory. These are mostly, with their absurd imitations of marble and stone,
poor, tautologous, false in principle. The geometric patterns are of course
better; but no wasteful lavishment of taste or invention is traceable.

The manufacture of figures and other ornaments in terra-cotta, recently
revived, has been carried further in France than in England; but with
success in the latter country as to durability of material—in all manufac-
ture the Englishman’s strong point. In original design, little has been
done. We should mention, however, the noteworthy application of this.
matérial to a modern Gothic church in Lincolnshire.

Ornamental domestic Glass, in which so great perfection, artistically
speaking unrivalled, was attained by the ancients, was not a characteristie
mediæval manufacture. Its European revival belonged to Venice, followed
by Germany. In both countries, much technic excellence and artistic
beauty in form and engraving were attained: during the sixteenth century
in Italy, after some ages of practice; in Germany, with great ceg
development of colour, early in the seventeeuth. ‘The English cuk
of the manufacture to any important extent was late. Till the $
years it laboured under the severest government check. A nr ig
course, however, has all along been maintained. It
. Stained glass, on the other hand, is an art, in its glory as characterl
cally mediæval, as perfect pottery is antique. It was reduced to the lowest
ebb during the last century, but has of late revived, so far as imitation of
the old remains goes. In mere technic qualities, of beauty of hye, there

"17

" CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE. >

is til, ‘ack to speak of design, great, shortcoming in our. ‘imitations. The

' aùsuccessful modern refers for explanation to the coarseness of the old
' glass, here undoubtedly of value, and to be reproduced; and to mellow-
ing influences of time, dirt, and decay. This latter is a plea least of all
calculated to explain all things; akin to the notion of some connoisseurs
of ‘tone ’—that is, dirt—in old pictures.

In domestic glass, similar importance attaches to form as in pottery.
Engraving offers a more restricted range of surface-ornamentation. In
development of colour we have greater difficulty, and greater beauty when
attained; in transmutation of form and substance through cutting and
frosting, effects peculiar to itself. The mere material has in its trans-
parency and brilliancy an esthetic charm which bad design may injure, but
not destroy. The excess to which cutting is at present carried; interferes
with the former property, and with general outline ; confusing the eye. It
substitutes effects dazzling, but often surprising rather than pleasing.

The variety of forms manufactured is great. Types borrowed from
the antique, or indirectly from the Venetian and German manufactures,
have exerted wide influence on articles in daily use. Many familiar
forms of wine-glasses, jugs, &c. are of considerable beauty, coming of a
pure stock. In others, as of decanters, the educing an esthetic charm from
the utilitarian purpose had, till latcly; been unattempted. Purely orna-
mental articles present effective reproduction of the beautiful antique forms;
reproduction mostly literal, sometimes as the basis of others. Any pre-
vailing adherence to defined principles no more exists than in pottery. The
late stimulated pursuit of design has bccn loose enough; as often directed
to straight-lined and outré as to curvilinear and refined forms. Novelty
has been the tvo influential aim. In the long-run, beauty and truth
are not to be hit upon; must be patiently, intelligently worked out.

The chandelier is a feature of modern manufacture, in which, with the
‘purity and brilliancy of their crystal, the English are pre-eminent. In
it modern design has had to rely on its own resources; and, following
the requirements of the article, been tolerably successful. In few other
cases have the peculiar beauties of the material been so adequately de-
veloped. The union of refined form-—refinement capable of being carried
‘much further than it is—with the utmost possible eliciting of the grace
natural to these suspended masses of light, the full emphasis on their lead-
ing characteristics as such: hercin consists the province of the designer.

The range of surface-ornament by engraving admits of very delicate
beauty. The most successful English design is that occupied with simple

‘forms, imitation of natural foliage, &c. The conditions of the mate-
rial preclude exaggeration, and such subject educes character strictly orna-
‘ mental. To the costly work, where picture-like effects and the human
Baro introduced, a sufficiently high order of art has not been applied.,
Pbimple kind of engraving—that on window-glass—good decorative
Bave been produced, at a cheap rate. Its domestic use might be
oe gle eously extended. Concealment of outlook, where desirable, is
Opened -by it, ornamentally and agreeably. Not so pretentious, as stained
sae success is more within the manufacturer’s reach.
«" The inferiority, in depth and brilliancy of hue, of the English to the

continental coloure@ glass has been stated. Subject-painting has been little
18 o’

RECENT DECORATIVE ART.

cultivated. Recent advances have been made, and ploasing effects pro-
duced, with copies from the antique, the Italian and modern masters.

In the useful metals, decoration includes treatment of general form, and
superaddition of surface-ornament. Austhetic beauty is to be educed from
utility, or engrafted on it; consistently with, and suggestive of, special
character. Such are the primary ends of ornamental design in this direc-
tion distinctively, as morc or less strictly everywhere. In the hands of true
artists, or where a right system pervades industria] design, the decorative
attainment is never incompatible with the utilita:ian, nor the union a diffi-
culty. Whero such system does not exist, the sordid repulsiveness of
utility divorced from beauty results; or in the spasmodic attempt at their
union, the former is lessened, the character of the decorated object falsi-
fied or concealed, fitness neglected, reality Jost. For esthetic effect itself,
the expression of utility must be preserved, as the root of it. In the beau-
tiful examples of mediæval iron-work, these principles are illustrated affir-
matively ; in modern, negatively In the former, utility was neve: denied
or injured, but always expressed, however claborate the ornament thercon
grounded. And on the rudest work character was impressed, by combina-
tions of line—the mere grouping, perhaps, of nails on a door—pleasing
and suggestive. In their ornamental work we sec also, contrary to much
of modern production, a style adapted to the materials: thinness, flatness
of surface, and consequent relative lighiness and grace of effect.

The modern Enghsh, while excelling m the mechanical, had forgotten
till late years the decorative clement. contcuting themselves with occa-
sional meagrest apologies. Jn French work, thi:e is, as to detail, genuine
beauty of design and workinanship; in the general aggregate, something
very wngenuine. The union of utility and beauty is mostly mechanical,
not essential. Fitness, the soul of all art however ‘high,’ is ignored.
Works of art are tached on to works of utility. One idea is lost amid a
host of conflicting ones. We, who of late have been following our neigh-
Lours, have not escaped their faults We have not proceeded tp their
extremes. Our practical sense will not allow us in the long-run to
commit the solecism of abjuring utility in attempts to be ‘artistic.’ Still,
to the endeavour at imparting a decorative aspect to our works in the
baser metals—iron, brass, &c.—fidelity of character and directness of
expression have been strangers. Our system is the reverse of the ancient,
the medizval, the Oriental, or any other which bore good fruit. Instead
of an article being itself ornamented, it must be, if ‘decorative,’ something
else. A curtain-holder must be a flower, a fender a pastoral, a letter-
weight a dolphin, the back and elbows of a garden-chair a snake, and
an inkstand be transmuted into various strange figments. As for the
poor worn-out mermaid, her soul must be daily undergoing a fresh
decorative transmigration. This system had its beginning during ip
sixteenth century ‘Revival,’ then counterbalanced by very exquisite W%
and executive refinement. It has come to a head at the present day. 7am
is so easy, compared with engrafting decoration on undisguised features,
eliciting an unforced beauty and character proper to the article; and for
surface-ornament, employing a well-elaborated range of conventional forms,
refined and suggestive.

The present change in decorative intention is preparing the way for

19

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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

semething better, though only amounting as yet to imitations of this
‘style’ or that, combinations, or unintelligent using up of stock forms.
There is still work where even this change would be for the better. In
second and third-class grates, stoves, the most sordid pretence at orna-
‘ment is stuck on. In the more expensive, there is free recourse to nonde-
script, to Louis Quatorze and Quinze, not to speak of pseudo- Gothic
puerilities.
In some technical requisites of artistic effect we have advanced, by call-
ing in aid from science. Jn iron-casting, esthetic beauty much ‘depends
on mechanical causes, exactly determinable by chemical experiment; the
sharpness of the casting on the degree and kind of fluidity of the heated
‘metal. The beauty of the ornamental Berlin castings is well known.
‘ Forcign castings of late have been competed with by our own, especially
those of the Coalbrook Dale Company, which body has signalised itself
by its efforts at decorative character.
We would here refer to Mr Pickett’s system of iron-construction.
Hitherto, the large use of iron has been accompanied by little true
design: sordid ugliness or miserable disguises have been the rule. The
interior of the London New Coal-Exchange is a noticeable exception. The
series of balconies, and supports of the roof, all iron, are undisguised, and
possess appropriate character. Perhaps some other colour or shade than
the white adopted would have been preferable, the more unmistakably to
distinguish the matcrial: otherwise, the gencral effect is unexceptionable.
In brasswork, Birmingham has long been famous, for utilitarian and
economic capabilities. In design, the French tendency above alluded to
is the predominant. Bronze has in England played a slender part. The
production of ornamental castings has been engrossed by Paris, and there
carried to a great pitch of perfection and on an extraordinary scale. „A
disposition has shown itself to attempt something for ourselves. In technic
regards the French might not long hence be rivalled. The numerous skilled
art-workmen, modellers, chasers, &c. by whom the chicf value of the Pari-
sian bronzes is conferred, it would be no easy task to get together.
In cutlery, so important a manufactnre, wherein our technic perfection
is noted, design can scarce be said to have place. The modern Eng-
lish practéwe would imply the incompatibility of an «esthetic side; con-
trary to the evidence of mediaeval, of Oriental work, where so much
, exquisite ornamentation occurs, of weapons, knives, tools, locks, keys ;
and, in the plainest examples, beauty of form. The stern utility, however,
of English work has a more genuine character than mere pretence could

ve. |

‘In gold and silver, that defect noticed in all modern metal work—
the making utility and art separate things, instead of one organic whole—
Macomes especially prominent. In costly examples, the system is one
sculptured pictures; of misccllaneous incongruous combinations. We
Sro groups, human or animal, affixed to the cup or centre-piece, with no
remy connection, little germane significance. The province of the sculptor
in less costly material is illegitimatcly invaded; and effects emulated which
the material itself, with its glistening brilliancy, its legitimate attribute,
‘forbids. The fundamental principle, that every material requires its dis-

tinct treatment, a decorative language of its own, is ignored.
20

=

RECENT DECORATIVE ART. | l

For surface-ornament we have copyism, sometimes mixture, of traditional
styles—Renaissance, Louis Quatorze and Quinze. Of the two latter, with
their unmeaning curves and scrolls, it is painful to see the prevalence.
Moro or less they enter into every province of design; make their appear-
ance now in a paper-hanging, then on a porcelain cup; now again in metal-
work—above all the ordinary stock in trade of a goldsmith, whether solid
metal or plated and Sheffield wares. ‘Their iyranny is here complete.
The technic skill of English workmen in gold and silver, with their nicety
of finish, is celebrated. Where modelling of the human figure has place, `
there is demand for improved education uf the art- workman, and more
definite evidence of knowledge of his subject and artistic fecling.

In plated goods, while the obtrusion of bad styles is the same, the
technic beauties of execution, of works in gold and silver, are of course
missing. By the electrotype process, however, with its perfect accuracy of
reproduction, great beauty of effect and refinement of finish are attainable:
all depends upon the original model.

In jewellers’ work real design scarcely exists. The prevailing ‘ modes’
are moretricious and irrational.

As to form, it is in gold, silver, and plated work, as in the other metals
and all modern manufacture: when having no guides, or neglecting them,
the requisite principles and refinement of feeling are wanting. As for.the
difficultics of a tca-pot, or an urn, they scem insurmountable by us. Even
in so casy a subject, for which good mudels are numerous, as a goblet,
there is unequal success. Everywhere, if not frightful, our forms are tame,
overloaded, or broken up; inharmonised into unity. From so simple a
matter as a spoon, ability for developing refined harmony of line and pro-
portion does not exist. In the more elaborate candlestick or centre-piece,
instead of clear enunciation of the structural features, and subservience of
decoration thereto, there prevails indiscriminate addition of ornament
everywhere, and combinations without plan or meaning for a whole.

The numerous uses of papier-maché—even within the present century
confined to tea-trays—its aptness to design, the elaborate attempts made
in it; all conspire to render the manufacture an important one in reference
to decorative art. It is divided into two distinct classes of application—
articles of furniture, and architectural decoration. In its many adapta-
tions under the first, to tables, desks, screens, &c. it has great claims; in
its durability, lightness, pliability, and susceptiveness to surface-decora-
tion. The manufacturers have been blamed for the gandiness into which
their plastic material has led them. ‘This should be changed into brilliancy.
It is harmonious combination that is demanded, not neglect of a legitimate
attribute. An example of the capabilities of the material are the recent
sparkling imitations of inlaid gems. As imitations which can deceive no
one, they are innocent. If pursued with taste, and feeling for colour,
unexceptionable beauty in brilliance of effect might result. Aap

A manufacture this peculiarly modern, there has been individual successe
in its decoration; in the flower-painting, grace and effectiveness. Flower
perhkps birds, and some kinds of still life, are appropriate to the material ;
successfully produced, adapted for repetition, and approaching in charagter
the strictly ornamental. The prevailing error is the resort to pictures.
Instead of simple decoration, or superior design specially adapted, we have |

21

* $ vt ` à ri 4g

“how os" o OMAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

copies ef popular engravings, sentimental or otherwise; of which there
is, without this further echo, a surfeit. Any true feeling in the decoration
itself is precluded. For the buyer, remains the daily-nauseating influence
of a tale mechanical in the telling, and stale in itself. Manufacturers and
the public have yet to learn it is no literal, necessarily inadequate repetition
of some other work of art, but expressly appropriate designs, unobtrusive,
yet suggestive, which deserve the name of decorative art. The suggestive-
ness and agreeableness of a medizval tesselated pavement or Oriental vase,
we do not exhaust with familiarity. These never make too great a demand
at once. But the significance of the mechanical copy of a sentimental or
pretty picture is exhausted the very moment we sce it. It needs all the
impress of genius, of the diving hand, in an original good picture, or the
faithful shadow of it in an engraving—itself instinct with a certain new
life—to render either suggestive daily companions. Aught less will grow
dead indeed. Where anything like a picture is attemptec in a manufac-
tured article, a very high pervading manner of art, as in a Grecian vase, is
required, and a range of imitation of nature restricted to the particular
vehicle of expression; or some other peculiar decorative excellence, as in
Oriental china the vivid harmony of colour, and stamp of distinctive cha-
racter. Papier-maché is a manufacture which has made great progress.
It is a pity that decoration should be pursued on a wrong track. Turning
from surface-ornament to form, little can be said. The material gives the
designer much license. ‘Ihe result has been a serics of forms, mostly
capricious and unmeaning; sometimes mutations of the Louis Quatorze,
&c.; always insubordinated to wsthetic rule.

In papier-maché applied architecturally the perils of facility become
graver. ‘The aid it, and in lesser degree carton-pierre, supplies, would be
legitimate were a distinctive character devcloped: these materials wearing
a recognisable decorative stamp; not used in make-believe of other sub-
stance, and imitatively of ‘styles’ characteristic of the latter. But we
have sham-classic, Gothic, Elizabethan work; sham-stone mouldings and
tracery; sham-stone pillars: all in papier-maché, carton-pierre. For the
present is the age of shams; at all events in architecture. The one idea
suggesting itself to our minds after making a mechanical discovery, is, how
to turn it to profit as a sham? And so the system does not exist whereby
these light materials might tell iheir own tale; one naturally graceful,
and in its kind effective. Partly inevitable is this, from the unfortunate
condition of modern architecture. Were č sound, such a state of things
could not be.

Used without disguise, these materials are admissible, in all private

. houses where a more solid system of architectural effect has not been sup-
plied. In ceilings especially, if more than a blank surface be desired, since
that period in the last century when hand-worked plaster ceased, which

was synchronous with the universal relinquishment of hand-work, substi-
tutes mechanically multiplied have been necessary., Tasteful, well-executed
designs in papier-maché, or composition, obtained from a good manufac-

mr

turer/adapted to the room and its proportions, enhancing size or height, or

, diminishing either, as the case may require, are immeasurably preferable to

t

the coarse plaster-ornaments which generally occupy their place. Designs
of great merit, graceful developments of ornament adapted from nature,
s 29 5

RECENT DECORATIVE ART. ' >

+

are produced. The use of colours specially appropriated, single ‘or varied,
is an esstntial constituent not adequately studicd.

The characteristic of modern art, as of so much modern life, is the ab-
sence of self-reliance. We cannot appear what we are. Our new materials,
facilitated processes, are thus turned to questionable account. One sub-
stance is aped by another; the decorative language proper to one pro-
duction mimicked in a different. The recently-improved manufacture of
stamped leather, for furniture, decorative panelling, &c. characterised by —
much beauty, boldness and precision of outline, is another mstance of
this. Instead of suggesting leather, in colour and effect, the chief glory is
considered to be its successful representation of wood—of an Elizabethan
cabinet, or what not. For extension of the resources of design by new
appliances, its healthful life is crippled; reality and truth daily more fore-
gone. Why should this be? Why should not papier-maché look like
papier-maché, carton-pierre like carton-pierre, stamped leather liko
stamped leather, cast-iron like cast-iron; each putting in its claims as
such? Till this be, no true life is possible for decorative art in these
departments.

Wood, a substance apt to the hands of the artist, receives small treat-
ment from him now in articles of general use. English design in its
relation to cabinet-making is at a low ebb. In the middle ages, art was
as apparent in the outline and ornament of the simplest chair or chest,
as in the elaborations of the goldsmith. Throughout the sixteenth and
seventeenth, till the beginning of the last century, an artistic spirit was
still manifested in the more grandiose domestic furniture of the English
gentleman, though in far less pure and beautiful styles. In France, after
the sumptuous half-caste art of the Louis Quatorze and Quinze, came a
brief ‘pure Greek’ mania; then the present specious copyisms and com-
binations of former styles, with a leaven of the usual naturalistic, fanci-
fully original design. In English costly furniture, there is the haphazard
conflict of all forms, models, and fashionable imported ‘ novelties;’ in
the ordinary run of furniture, stern ugliness or insipidity. The implicit
repetition of Louis Quatorze is dying out. A blank occupies its place.
As for studious artistic development of refined forms, that is a thing
undreamed in the cabinet-maker's philosophy. Such degree of prosaic
character attention to utility insures, there is. Whatever of the decorative
element has place iu it, and some necessarily must, is all uninstructed roting
—the laying-on ornament, and shaping routine meaningless forms, without
thouglit or feeling, according to mechanical book-precedents, established
authorities of confusion. The poverty of design in the artificers themselves
is complete. i

The remark applies to the ‘ carver and gilder,’ the workers in ormolu,
&c. Nothing can be more overworn than most of the current design,
nor more mechanical than the way of using it. In picture-frames, plam
gilding would possess infinitely more intrinsic beauty and relevance that
two-thirds of the stereotyped repetition of scroll-work, disconnected -
curves, &c.' daily multiplied. Variations of copyism, and some recourse’
to natural material, form the remaining third. ‘Whatever the ornament, it
is laid on, not specially adapted. Papier-maché and gutta percha offered
room for new effects, not turned to due account. Failing bosat tiop

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

might be given to the requisites of the special design, such as unity of
purpose in the bounding. lines of the frame, and a connected whole,
inbtead of aimless patches of.ornament at sides and corners.

Buhl is a costly luxury, antiquarian in design; the ornamental forms

` traditionary ; the effect attractive, if its production be not very intelligent.

Exceptional efforts at design characterise recent cabinet'-making, as
every other manufacture. The extended application of wood-carving is

' a promising opening for the development of art. Very beautiful works of

second-hand design have been produced, necessarily costly. For Gothic
forms- there is a growing taste. In the diffusion of decorative character
machine-work may prove useful, especially in the simpler articles. For
thesc some degree of ornament adapted from nature may be produced at a
much smaller cost than by hand-work.

Of wood-carving by machinery two processes have gained attention :
the one known as Jordan’s Patent is the less exceptionable in principle.
The finishing is performed by hand; thus some direct human agency
preserved. Where much space is covered, tameness is unavoidable, from
the prevailing uniformity of surface: in place of the freedom and variety
following hand-labour, that ‘bright strange play of the living stroke,’
not moving with the precision of mathematic law. The machinery lite-
rally carves the wood. ‘The fidelity with which the main form and leading
lines are wrought is marvellous. Something weird is the aspect of the
blocks, fresh from the machinc; with their ghostly reality, kin to the
creation of a human hand, all the work of blind, inanimate agency..
The works of the Wood-carving Company are produced by heat and
pressure; the carved impression by a die, without after hand -labour.
The object of machinery, in lessening cost, is not always attained by these
processes; only in case of great repetition of one feature, or, less incon-
sistently with true art, by multiplication of the whole work. In Jordan's

. Patent, the pecuniary advantage of machinery tells in simple forms. With

intricacy of pattern, too much finishing is required. In the other process,
it is exactly the reverse. The cost ot the die is too great for profitable
execution of simple work. As to the wxsthetic bearing of machinery,
here, as elsewhere, it brings us gain in accomplishing the mechanical; loss,
in its substitution for human thoughtful labour, the fresh impress of the
living hand..

The revived wooden bread-platters, potato-bowls, &c. have elicited
felicitous application of wood-carving to ordinary uses. The original

' platter of Mr Bell’s design was the successful Lala of numerous others,

executed by hand and machinery.
Another revival is of inlaid woods for Tonors parquetage,’ as
termed in France. Geometric patterns form the appropriate field of

‘design. Good ones are in use. ‘The English are too wedded to the

arpat. with its warmth and comfortable aspect, to return to parquetage in
e.sitting-room. For hall or public building, a combination of different-
coloured woods in.geometric device is effective. Where the cost is no
bar, parquetage or encaustic tiles should take the place of our ugly, ili-
joined public floors, and poor private substitutes for ornamental air-tight

` floors, when carpet is not used.

ya

Marguetrie, in furniture—iulaid tables, &e.—has also gained ground.
24

RECENT DECORATIVE ART.

For surface-ornamentation nothing can compete with it, as to richness and
harmony of effect, and durability: the ornament an integral part of the
substance—the most coherent and secure decoration of any. !

In book-binding, the costly works of the middle ages, on which so much
precious art and material, gold, ivory, jewels, were lavished, mark the
prevailing devotion to art; and times, when books were the rare, prized
possession of the prince and the religious body. Of the sixteenth and
seventcenth centuries, examples are more akin to our own: leather largoky
employed, decorated with geometric and arabesque patterns. After dwindl-
ing to insignificance, rude simplicity, book-covers have lately advanced.
in some directions, much activity exists. Cheap literature has drawn to
itself cheap design for the external book, whether silk, cloth, paper-boards
— quasi bindings unknown to the continent, where paper takes their place.
This employment of designer by publisher affords scope for obtaining a
good design, and its due influence on the public, through the exfent of
its application. Some degree of decoration is now generally adopted.
Urnamental covers are used where plain roan was twenty years ago.
There is room for farther development, both of its amount. and quality.
The variation among publishers is great in attention to the matter.

In leathern bindings, our technical excellences of finish are considerable.
Ordinary second and third-class bindings have little design, préperly so
called: mechanical repetition of stock receipts, disjointed patches of orna-
ment at angles and corners. In the higher-class, where original design
is called in, we have, as in cloth covers, plenty of eclecticism and repro-
duction. Modified fragments of ideas from the arabesques of the-Alhambra
form an especially favourite stop-gap of a style. Adaptations from nature
—foliage, &c.—there are also. The designs of Owen Jones deservedly stand
high for originality and effective development of natural material.

In this selecter class of leathern bindings, and in the temporary book-
covers, design of much merit occurs, in some measure original, though
frequent meretriciousness and wiry unmeaningness. Even in the better
designs we often find the pattern broken up—a concatenation, rather than
a blending, of parts. The management of the lettering is a constant
stumblingblock. There are three requisites in book decoration — lines
intrinsically harmonious, gencral unity, appropriateness.

Some ambitious attempts have been made in wood. The effect is blotchy
and confused. A relieved surface is not here the most in keeping.
Smoothness and flatness form the desirable attribute of a book we handle.
A design purely decorative, not aiming to be a work of art on its own
account, independently of that whereof it is the garment, is essential.

In imitation of the sumptuous medizval works, use of ivory, velvet,
enamel, and other costly adjuncts, the Parisian houses assert dazzling
claims, decorative and executive. This must be considered an exceptional
class. Those in which the English excel are those germane to present
literature, and the more important, in their wide diffusion and influence.

Paper-hangings form a decorative manufacture among the most important,
through its extensive use. Like most now developed on the largest scale,
it js substantially characteristic of our own time. Its first beginnings are
unknown. Before the seventeenth century, it was of small importance.
It gradually displaced the more costly tapestry of the rich; later, assunred

y 25

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

the part of covering the bare walls of the poorer classes. Before the end
of the eighteenth century, the English manufacturers took an important
position, for material and design. The story of recent French superiority
is well known’. In the main qualities of material, the English are equal
to their rivals; in cheapness, superior. In design and finish, the French
have the confessed advantage, to a degree paralleled in few other instances.
The ability in drawing, the harmonious gradation of tints, their tasteful
selection, are points in ‘their best papers, felt by all. It is not in design
the greatest English shortcoming lies, but in artistic execution. That
want of art-workmen every branch of English manufacture has to lament
makes the difficulty hard to overcome. French drawing, colour, and finish,
as much depend for their effect on the possession of such, as of well-trained
designers, versed in the requirements of the manufacture.

Efforts at superior design have been made i in England, and good things
realised. But French designers are employcd, or French design copied, toa
pitiable extent. In the vosila works, there is xo English competition; it
is all direct importation. Of cheap English papers, forced upon the public
by their cheapness, the design of the majority is bad indeed, vulgar,
unmeaning. It is the misfortune of this, as other manufactures, that design,
the most important, from its diffusion, is least attended to. Tolerable art
has to tfavel downwards, and by very slow degrees. The manufacturers
manufacture, as some painters and musicians paint and compose, down to
their customers, under the delusion these will not accept better. The
fact is, they do not buy better, because it is not to be had—not within
their reach. It is vain to talk of educating the taste of the people in
decorative art, while the articles of their familiar use are, in design, a
quarter of a century behind those produced for the richer classes. ‘The
appreciation of excellence, while needing culture in all, and exercise, is
far more common to the many, than bad painters and low-class manu-
facturers would have it. Seldom is a good thing—not too recondite—-set
before them without some recognition. And the people are, in their unso-
phisticatedness of taste, often proof against those splendid errors, apt to
dazzle the wealthy, always worshippers of the ‘rich,’ and the sumptuous
outlay ; as we see in the more costly goods of all kinds—carpcts, porcelain,
paper-hangings.

Some consideration of the clements of decoration would be advantageous
in the choice of papers: the necessity of consulting the aspect of the
100lkeWarm colours for cold aspects, and vice versa ; its size—smallncss
of for small rooms; purpose, &c. As in the selection of other
uphofétcries,* and ‘of dress, a few guiding ideas would do more in prce-
venting sins against decorative propriety than all the promptings of a
capricious ‘taste.’ Itis a rudimentary principle in art, in whatever appli-
cation, that mere imitation is the veriest perversion of it, and as unsuccess-
ful in its deception, as ungenuine in itself. This the majority of people will
not see, obvious though it be. The first condition to any true effect is,
that the attempt be acknowledged; a painting purposing to be a represen-
tation of nature, not nature itself; a paper-hanging purposing to be a
paper-hanging, not an oak wainscot. Yet a popular class of cheap papcrs
are‘the make-believes of solid substance—stone and wood. They arc the

descendants of a much more pretentious race, in vogue years ago, set much
=f

RECENT DECORATIVE ART.

store by at the time, which succeeding generations have seen fit to banish—
imitative prescntments of sculpture and architecture.

The prevailing styles in paper-hangings are, the direct employment of
the natural material common to all decorative art—foliage and flowers;
and geometric patterns, small or elaborate. In the latter, we have copyism
of the Elizabethan, Renaissance, and Louis Quatorze. Among recent —
English papers of real excellence, good in principle, harmonised in colour,
are well-distributed diapers; also skilfully arranged, more intricate; geo-
metric patterns. Of the former class may be instanced Mr Pugin"
designs, brought out by Mr Crace, the eminent decorator.

Mr Crace’s name suggests domestic decoration—a branch of art in which
this gentleman is in London acknowledged leader. In Edinburgh, Mr
Hay has a high reputation for practical knowledge of decorative design,
and elaborate, but dogmatic, investigations into the theory of art.

The refinement to which decoration has been carried in the houses of the
wealthy ; in panel-painting, and other ornamentation of wall and ceiling;
on a consistent plan, subservient to a gencral effect; assisted by wood-
carving equally subordinated, and attention to co-operating adjuncts, is a
salient feature in recent decorative art. In public buildings, a corres-
ponding development has, in contradiction to the practice of all time
preceding, and of modern Germany and France, been mostly ignored,
agreeably with that indifference and puctlanimous parsimony as to art,
characteristic of our government. And thus the efficient means of
cultivating popular taste aud decorative skill has been lost. Any exten-
sive body, therefore, of competent, native, working-decorators is not to be
expected. The demands of private individuals have been met by a few
decorators, like Mr Crace, who have devoted time and study to their
pursuit, and assembled or educated a staff of executive assistants, of
more or less skill and- taste. Correlatively with generally increasing
wealth and pretension, the title of ‘decorator’ has been more and more
assumed, in conjunction with the occupation of ‘ paper-hanger,’ ‘ plumber
and glazier,’ &c. The class is a heterogeneous one. Decorators cf a
high kind are rare. Some of tlic self-styled professors cannot but discredit
the calling, and by questionable taste diffuse the influence of bad instcad
of good art. <A tasteful paper-hanging, lct those of average means
remember, is a far more genuine thing than a bald pancl-decoration,
tamely drawn, weakly coloured, still more than a vulgar sham. If not of
really the best order, such assumptions are mechanical and offensive. The
prevalence of imitative work, among all decorators, is an ill feature; as
again is that of impure styles—the Elizabethan, Louis Quatorze. De-
finite principles little prevail anywhere. The fundamental error is the
dominion of styles, instead of a style; of cclecticism, for independent
thought and feeling. In the present state of architecture, little better
perhaps can be expected.

Decorative art separates in application, like architecture, to which it
ministers, into two branches: the public—civil and ecclesiastic; and do-
mestic. The manufactures gone through have been viewed in the latter
relation, that being in our day immeasurably the more prominent. Prin-
ciples are alike in both—specitically modified by the varying manifes-_
dation. In old times, the public application, capecially in its ecclesiastic

' 27

CHAMBER'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

section, contested in productive importance, with the domestic; surpassed it
in artistic, and in costliness. In the medieval church, it included the purely
decorative aspects of painting—ornamentation of plain surface, in mono-
chrome, or single colour ; in polychrome, or many ; of sculpture-—ornamen-
tation in relief of stone and wood; stained glass; tesselated pavements ;
embroidered vestments for priests, studied in form and ornament; hang-
ings; wrought iron and brass; works in gold and silver; enamelling, niello,
&c. After long abandonment or perversion, revival of these developments
has accompanied that of Gothic arcliitecture—the distinguishing feature
of current art. The High Church party in England has lent itself with
fervour to the movement. Mr Pugin among the Catholics has led the
way in design. A decorator like Mr Crace includes Gothic among his
‘styles,’ and tinds it a favoured one. Reproductions of the Gothic patterns
of wood-carving, encaustic tiles, embroidery, metal work, of the forms of
church vessels; all, more or less correct in /etter, have resulted. In stained
glass there has been least relative success; in technic attainments of hue
and wsthctic aspects—harmony of colour, unity of design, all compriscd
under the old spirit and feeling. Decoration in the special sense, orna-
mentation of surfaces, in colour, with a strictly decorative end, of general
consistency of effect throughout an interior, has been little studied. In
it there “is small likelihood of approximation to the beautiful medieval
models. The remnants of such decoration are few and slight; we, removed
from the feeling which dictated them. At the head of reproducers of
Gothic manufacture, Messrs Hardman and Price of Birmingham, assisted
by the able and fertile design of Mr Pugin, execute works in the*metals,
in hangings, stained glass, faithful to the old technic and xsthetic cha-
racteristics, and of exceeding beauty. The interior of the new Houses
of Parliament, intrusted to the last-named master of Gothic precedent,
offers the example on a large’scale, in a civil building, of reproduction of
Gothic decorative art, in most of its manifestations.

Thus we have completed the round, the endeavour to set before our
readers the main existing relations of the decorative to the useful arts; the
amount of aid æsthctic skill lends, the degree of fidelity with which it repre-
sents, contemporary manufacture. In contradistinction from the poetry of
ancient decorative art—the result of faithful study—we have seen the
prose, sometimes inanity, of modern. We have seen the consequence
of the esthetic losses of the last few centuries, and of the new and
peculiar conditions of modern life; for adequatcly meeting which those
losses have disabled us. We have seen the absence of a definite organic
system of design, like the Grecian or medieval—one spirit pervading all
*phases—such as insures a ‘consistent development of the artistic re-
sources of a people or time. In place of zs order, and simplicity, and real
freedom, have been noticeable mixed conflicting reproductions, of nature:
flowers, foliage, animals; of antique material—cupids, nymphs, allegories;
of lines Gothic and lines classic; of this ‘ style’ and that—Llizabethan,
Italian, Moresque. We have seen the total absence of design, properly
so called, from many branches of English production; the weakness
flowing from lack of artistic education; the literal copyisms of estab-
lisfred manufactures; the surviving prevalence of Louis Quatorze and
Quinze. Imitative ornamentation on ‘ sound authorities’ is the only

28

RECENT DECORATIVE ART.

advance yet dreamed by practical men; as a substitute for the same, at
haphazard.

The difficulties of working out de novo, an artistic system, are great.
From two sources we may look for hope. Perhaps it has dawned. Among
recent successes, there is wide distinction between those mercly revivals,
as some just noticed — encaustic tiles, &c.; and those necessarily inde-
pendent, but unguided—as dress-patterns. By reproduction of a good style,
much may be done; in popular familiarisation of forms executed on true
principles, and education thercin of designer and artificer. In manufac-
tures, on the contrary, peculiar to our time, by exclusive study of their
technic conditions genuine character is attainable. In designing for
mechanical modes of reproduction—printing on textile fabrics and on
pottery, casting in iron, restrictions arc happily laid on the designer. It is
indispensable to consider the capability of the process whereby the final
effect will be realised. Perforce, more reality is the indirect consequence,
than were there license for fanciful vagaries ‘ all out of his own head.’

In all provinces, independent of architecture, comparative facilities
exist for future realisation of a consistent style of our own, through
legitimately confining all attempt to expression ‘of the uses and character
of the article and material decorated, ‘It .has been seen throughout
the truth of a design depends on its specific application to material—
whether wood, iron, bronze, the precious retals, fictile substance, or textile;
and on the particular purpose, whether for the person, wall, floor. The
design effective in one material, consisteut with one purpose, will not be
in others. Another postulate of true design all along referred to is the
imitation of nature within conventional boundarics, varying with the
application, and its special: limits. Illustration of the principle occurs
in the question of adherence to natural local colour. In a painting pur-
posing to represent nature, this must be given as there occurring. Dut
in an isolated feature, leaf or flower, adapted to the pattern of a dress or
paper-hanging, when the natural colour consistently involves other impos-
sible requirements of fidelity, or trenches upon deception instead of sugges-
tion, it is inadmissible. The French school, and a rising English body—
including Bell the sculptor, and some recent disciples of ornamental design,
who have done the best things—have an undue naturalistic tendency: a
mistake apt to those not conversant with the laws affecting this particular
province. The ‘naturalistic’ and ‘ conventionalistic’ schools have from
time immemorial been at feud. Their several truths are easily reconvil-
able. The solution lies in the equitable adj justment of the claims of nature
and art.

Meanwhile there is from this very school hope; of development of
unborrowed reality, from nature direct. To such end, one tendency must
be discarded—that to excess of ornament, decorative overloading of the
utility: another phase of the naturalistic, inartistic bias, this unmodified
trausference of natural detail. Simplicity is as essential to right decoration
_ as to utility. In our efforts at the ornamental, would we have success,
simplicity, utility, fitness, must be primary considerations ; also, in gencral,
compatibility of art with reasonable cost. That is No decorative design
which is divorced from utility; and one little to the purpose, ¢ beyond
the ordinary buyer. But whether the article be cheap or costly, simple
29

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

tion is afforded. There is hope of a revision of the law: extension and
equalisation of the periods. For the sake of public morality, of design,
of manufacture, the amendment is desirable. Piracy, while it annihilates
design, can never in the long-run help, do other than cripple manufac-
ture itself. Neither will be on a sound footing, till all possibility be
removed, of indulgence in this noxious, enfeebling vice—the basest form
of that base subterfuge, copyism, the make-believe of a healthful original
activity.

The importance of design in its application to manufacture is scarcely
to be overrated: as a branch of popular education in feeling for art, as
supplying the contentment of such feeling, when awakened. lt is a dce-
velopment of art, the most comprehensive and various in itself, the widest
in its diffusion and influence. Neither are the interests of that Jarge por-
tion of the people employed in manufacturing production less intimately
bound up with the question of the decorative phase of it, the more or less
reality and thought there brought to bear. The value in every department
of human labour, of the exertion of thowyht, is inestimable to the producer
himself, and all concerned in the production, as to the public. It elevates
the tenor of his work, enlarges the range of his work-day experieuce. In
decorative art, the scope of thought for the artificer lies in the imparting
an aim, a meaning, and appropriate expression, to the decoration, harmo-
nising material utility with nature. To those whom he addresses, is sup-
plied familiar, indirect, mental appeal, and mental contentment: appeal
and contentment, grounded on utilities, superadded to satisfactiun of neces-
sities. Thence is extracted, nature-wise, a finer use. The result, when
decorative art is in a healthy state, truly fulfilling its function, is, as of all
art--the enlargement of life; of the range of familiar sympathies, and
delights, and thoughts, the rendering daily life to some extent fuller and
fairer to all producing, all enjoying such art.

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS,

m the case of a purely modern science, like geology or statistics, there

can be little dispute and no mystery about its origin and progress. It
is analogous to the United States of America. Its history lies, first and last,
under the eye of present daylight: hour after hour recorded by the press,
that chronometer of recent ages. Such sciences as astrology and alchemy,
on the other hand, ran their courses in the twilight of time, having taken
rise in the starlit night of history. Resembling the nations of antiquity
in these respects, they resemble them also in tracing their origin to giants,
prophets, superhuman heroes, or demigods. This fabulous character of the
early annals of those dark-age mysteries—for they were schemes of esoteric
dogma rather than explicit fabrics of knowledge—is the first thing that
attracts the attention of the historical student of alchemy.

The very etymology of tffe word is lost in hopeless obscurity. Scaliger
says he saw a work in the king of France's library, written in Greek, by
Zozimus the Panapolite, in the fifth century; and. Olaus Borrichius seems
td intimate that he also had read it, although it. & in a somewhat ambiguous
passage that the hint occurs. They represent it as ‘a faithful description
of the sacred and divine art of making gold and silver.’ Borrichius gives
what professes to be an extract from it, in which the writer first refers to
a fact which he had managed to deduce from the Scriptures, Hermes Tris-
megistus, and many other sources—namely, that there is a tribe of genii
possessed of an unhappy propensity to fall in love with women. ‘The
ancient and divine Scriptureg inform us,’ he gravely assures the worthy
Olaus, ihe learned: Scaliger, and others his readers, ‘that the angels, capti-
vated by women, taught them all the operations of nature. Offence being
taken at this, they remained out of heaven because they had taught man-
kind all manner of evil, and things which could not be advantageous to
their souls. “The Seriptures inform us that the giants sprang from these
embraces, Chema is the first of the traditions respecting these arts. The
book itself is called Chema; hence the art is called Chemia.’

Even supposing for a moment that the preamble of this singular account.:
is true, and that the ‘Sons of God’ did impart many a primitive secret to.,
the ‘daughters of men,’ it is not easy to peresive how a tradition could’
also be á book; and there would remain for explanation the name of the
book itéelf, . Plutarch, however, asserts that Egypt was sometimes called
Chemia, ane Panapolis was an Egyptian city. It was, moreover, —

No. 66. F eA y

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE. -

of the favourite opinions among the Arabian as well as the earlier Euro-
pean alchemists (an opinion entertained by Albertus Magnus amongst
others) that Hermes Trismegistus was the father of their science. That
august personage is represented as having flourished two thousand years
before the appearance of Christ. According to Kriegsmann, Avicenna
and other Arabian polypharmists believed ‘that Sarah took a table made
of zatadi, supposed to have been emeralds, from the hands of Hermes,
entombed in a cave near Hebron.’ On this table were inscribed the dogmas
~of the master concerning his chemical secrets, in thirteen mysterious sen-
tences. In the twelfth of these enunciations, he informs the discerning
public that on him ‘was imposed the name of Hermes Trismegistus, because
he was the ordained doctor of three parts of the wisdom of the world.’
Now, although the very name of this supposed interpreter, not to speak of
still more obvious internal evidences, is quite sufficient to prove the purely
mythical character of the whole story, the existence of this tradition among
both the eastern and the western adepts, seems to render it not unlikely
that the etymology of the-word is connected with Egypt. Borrichius’s own
private opinion is clearly to the effect, that the hermetic art descended from

Tubal-Cain or Vulcan; but he allows that there is much tọ be said in

favour of Trismegistus, who has been supposed by some to have been

Chanaan, the son of Ham, whose son Mizraim first occupied Egypt.

It has to be mentioned, in fact, that the word Thoth, the Egyptian name
for Hermes Trismegistus, means a pillar, according to Josephus and

Manetho; in which, it seems, they are corroborated by Jablonski. The

truth of the matter appears to be, that pillars were early used by the

Egyptians for the same purposes as parchment and paper have been

employed by the literary men of more moderfnations. These pillars were

their books and standard body of literature. It further appears that there
were three successive Thoths or schemes of inscription; that is to say,
three dispersations or epochs of pillared literature. The first set are said
to have reached down to the time of the Flood; the second contained all
that was discovered or thought during the infancy of the scientific know-

Jedge of these ancient people; and the third was the embodiment or pub-

ena the full-grown science of Egypt. Hence the whole system of

pillars :was readily impersonated under the mythical appellation of Hermes

Trismegistus, the thrice-great interpreter, as the name implies. It is,

accordingly, ‘easy to understand how that-illystrious and encyclopzdical

author was subsequently represented as having composed thirty thousand
volumes! It must be confessed that all this looks very satisfactory, not

-only as explaining the traditionary story of Trismegistus, but also as con-

firmatory of the historic hint that the word chemistry is of Egyptian

origin, as has already been shewn to be not unlikely.

2 On the other hand, it has been customary ameng more recent critics
“than these mediaval speculators’ to make the root of alchemy a Greek
_ word. Tt has been supposed to be derived from xs», whith signifies juice
„or menstraum ; and to refer to the acide, leys, and other solvents in use
among eherists and alchemists. - This was the favourite etymology among

‘the very latest of the European adepts; and it gave rise to the spelling of
* the word with y--alchymy. Boerhaave contended that it was drawn from
! the Greek verb maning to fuse or melt, x; and ever ‘since the, inculca-

i
A

ka

a

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISETS. — me

tion of this etymology, both alchemy and chemistry have been written as
they are printed here, in deference to established custom. Webster resists
this derivation; spells them ‘alchimy and chimistry ; and remarks upon the
noticeable circumstance, that the southern nations of Europe have never
yielded to the Teutonic innovation. l

It is unfortunate for these specimens of Græco-mania, that neither the `
word chemia (xaua), nor any etymon connected with the notion of alchemy |
or chemistry, occurs in any Greek author before Suidas, who is said to
have produced his lexicon in the eleventh century, under the Emperor
Alexander Comnenus. That lexicogtapher explains ekemia to be the con-
version of silver and gold; and is of opinion that the art of doing so was
known to the Egyptians in the time of Dioclesian, who is said to have
burned all the manuscripts in Egypt, in order to put an end to the pursuit.
Suidas also suggests, under another head (4tees, a skin), that the invalu-
able fleece, which Jason and his Argonauts carried off from Colchis along
with Medea, was nothing less than a treatise on gold-making written on
hides. ‘This is of course a piece of private and personal ingenuity on the
part of Suidas; and, as such, it is not unlike another esoteric doctrine
which some one has fetched us from the East, to the effect that the ‘ Ara-
bian Nights’ is a symbolic setting forth of alchemy! In fine, there seems
to be not the shadow of a reason for surmising that the ancient Greeks»
ever dreamed of the matter.’ They had neither the name nor the thing.

In whatever way this significant questiou concerning the origin of the
substantive root of the word be eventually settled, there can be no dispute
about the prefix. The unquestionably, Arabic character of that particle, .
indeed, appears to indicate the fact that Al-chemy, as such, had its his-
torical, though, probably enough, not its traditional origin in. Arabia.
Johanues Chrysippus Fanianus, or an author under that somewhat too
significant name (for there is no department of literature so overcrowded
with spurious productions as that of the Spagyric art), is careful to insist
that the polypharmists meant more than is apparent in denominatixig the
doctrine of transmutation the chemia. According to.him, they recognised .
a difference between all common chemical operations and the ‘ great pro-
jection.’ Such operations belonged to the domain of vulgar chemistry, .
but transmutation was represented as being dependent on more secret and
interior principles. It was the chemistry of chemistries, or Alchemy... |

There has been implied in these observations on the derivation of alchenry
a certain degree of discussion of the origin of the science itself. It.is need-
less to inquire into the tradition, for example, which traces it to Moses,
whose empirical knowledge of metallic reactions must have been not only
considerable, but almost beyond that of the present day, if the Hebrew
word be correctly translated in the account of Aaron’s golden calf, given
in the book of Exodus.. It is said that the Jewish leader and legislator -
burned the idol, strewed the ashes of it upon the waters, and imbittered
the drink of his impatient host. Now it has been remarked that, in order.
to produce such effects upon gold, he must have been, at least practically,
acquainted with the properties of the sulphur salte—a class of compounds’
which have been discovered by the moder experimentalist only in very”
recent times. -` It is impossible, however, to some to anything like a satis-
factory conclusion on such a point, ‘after, mem like Spinoza and: Púbre ao

r
r ti a 3
vS “ uait

L} ay
Li i
EN

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE. —

Olivet have united, with the rabbinical school of these ages, in assert-
ing that the Old Testament is far from being properly rendered, even

ty the Septuagint, in a multitude of particulars. {t is, indeed, almost

universally allowed, even amongst the most bibliolatrous of Protestant

interpreters, that the glory of our version resides in its conveyance cf the
spirit of the Sacred Writings, and.not in its literal fidelity concerning every
petty detail. ‘There can be no manner of doubt, for instance, that the word
translated nitre ought to have been expressed by natron—that is, soda, or,
more strictly speaking, the carbonate of soda. Jience Solomon illustrates
one of his sharpest proverbs by the action of ‘ vinegar upon nitre,’ referring
to the violent commotion and effervescence which ensues on the mingling
of natron and that acid ; the principle, in fact, upon which the efforvescing
draughts of the modern apothecary are prepared. It is not altogether
improbable, therefore, that the gold of Aaron and his rebellious brethren
may have been a kind of brass or pinchbeck, with a large proportion of
gold—a supposition which would render its calcination quite intelligible,
without assigning anything like remarkable chemical information to the
indignant prophet. Howsoever all this may really be, moreover, it is not
.to be overlooked that the practical acquaintance with eyen very compli-
cated processes of this sort does by no means implicate a scientific know-
sledge or rationale of chemistry. The arts of baking and of brewing, for
instance, are dependent on’ very complicated"and recondite principles of
‘action and reaction; yet it is generally understood that they were found

' out by ‘rule of thumb,’ and not discovered by induction.

Accordingly, one is prepared to find a positive and methodical chemist
like Dumas setting all those antique claims imperiously aside; putting
that of Maria the Jewess, a kind of mythological Joan of Arc in this
fantastical region of fabulous history, among the rest. .‘We can no
longer,’ says that eloquent philosopher, ‘place the cradle of chemistry

» exclusively even in the laboratory of the ancient pharmacopolists, to

whom some are willing to attribute its discovery. The services we

, have done raise us quite high enough to enable us to remember, and that

without embarrassment, our obscure parentage. Let us confess at once,
then, without going round about it, that practical chemistry took its rise
in the. workshops of the smith, the potter, or the glass-blower, and in
the shop of the perfumer; and let us just agree that the first elements
of scientific chemistry date no farther back than yesterday.’

Although this judgment seems to be wary sensible and very natural,
as coming from sọ great an ornament of the present school of chemistry,
neither the one nor the other of the terms of which it is composed can
stand the scrutiny of a stricter dialectics. In the first place, practical
chemistry is not practical chemistry until it hag first been theoretical or
doctrinal chemistry. The moment an inventor bethought himself of using
‘some chemical discovery or other ‘for the purposes of economical art, the
idga of practical chemistry was conceived. The origin of practical che-

- mistry must therefore have been posterior to, or, at the earliest, coincident

with, thet of theoretical chemistry, be the date of the latter what it may.

“Tf, howeyer, this criticism appear to be nothing better than a verbal or

Jogical refinement, there is another consideration which is a8 unobjection-
wéb as it is obviqus. Accepting any less precise definition of practical

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.

chemistry than has just’ been given, why stop at the workshops òf civilised,
or even of semi-civilised life, in tracing it to its rise? Why not ascend
at once to Adam and his primeval family ? If practical chemistry consist
in the performance of operations which are essentially chemical in their
nature, then the first man who kindled a fire, roasted an ox, or seethed a
kid, ‘was the father of all such as deal in that manifold art. These obser-
vations are certainly very unimportant, but so is the question which they
concern, and they are offered foreno other purpose than to prepare for
the serious discussion of Dumas's second opinion about the history of
chemistry. Ie asks us to grant that the first elements of scientific
chemistry date no farther back than yesterday. It is the common opinon
among the chemistg of to-day. They are for the most part so dazzled by
the really brilliant results of very modern chemistry, and so blind to the
possibility of any of its first principles being only temporary and remote
approximations to the truth, as to be incapable of tracing the theory of
chemistry any farther back than the memorable days of Lavoisier, in the
light of whose thought they still rejoice and work. Without caring to
protest against this amiable idol-worship of the immortal Lavoisier, we
deny that doctrinal or scientific chemistry is the contemporary of cither
the printing-press or any other modern instrument, whether of thought or
of handiwork.

The Lavoisierian chemistry was only one of the epochs of the life of the
science. But there were epochal developments before that of Lavoisier, just
as the Daltonian era has come after it. Each of these movements had not
only its grand and abiding truth to bring forward, but also some important
and decidnons error to leave behind it, as might easily be shewn to have
been the case with the French chemistry itself. In one word, alchemy
(to say nothing of the post-alchemical doctiine of Phlogiston at present)
had its genuine scientific function to perform, and its distinct scientific
value in the history of chemistry. A true history of the science, ine fact,
would exhibit one continuous stream of truth mingled with error, from the
origin of alchemy down to the latest discoveries and views. In the mean-
time, we shall unfold the story of the early progress of chemistry, with the
aid of the competent authorities: and in doing so, we shalt find a sufficient
deliverance of all that is necessary, in the present connection, concerning
the alchemists; and concerning their relation to science in gencral, as well
as to chemistry in particular. It is desirable, however, to take @ preli-
minary glance at the ideas of classical Greece respecting the theory of
nature, for it will be found that those ideas have had not a little to do not
only with alchemy in all its stages of ‘evolution, but also with the chemistry
of Dalton and the fature.

Nor will the reader-grudge the time and the labour of thought bestowed on
such distant topics, when he finds that the consideration of them is fraught
with lessons of itiportance. He will learn that man never labours in vain
when he is sincere, devout, and industrious in his endeavours, as the alche-
mists will be discovered to have been. Ife will perceive to his delight, morb-
over, that there is no such thing as revolution in the progress of science,
but only the large and solemn growth of 4 ving creature. Nor will it be
difficult to extend such precious verities from this, their private and parti-
cular sphere, into the grander domain of uniyorsal history. i

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

Tt was Thales of Miletus, the father of Greek philosophy, who metho-
@ically originated the conception that water is the first principle of things.
He inculcated the scientific dogma that water is the one substantial or
underlying essence, of which the rest of nature is but the manifold expres-
sion. Water was represented in his system as the solé and primeval
matter, convertible and actually converted, by some plastic,power, into
the thougand-and-one familiar creatures in the universe: now into this
one, and now into that; now into wood and now into stone; now into the
grass of the fields, and now into the body of man himself! Nor does this
doctrine appear to be fantastical, as has been remarked by Ritter, when one
reflects how rocks and salts can be extracted by mere boiling and evapora-
tion not only out of the sea, but also from the most insipid of lakes and
Streams, and even from rain. It is not yet beyond the memory of man,
that Lavoisier was careful to distil water backwards and forwards in a1
alembic; for many long days and nights together, in order to settle the
question whether water were actually convertible into earthy matter, as had
been asserted and believed by his immediate predecessors. Scheele, onc of
his most distinguished contemporaries, instituted another sort of experiment
upon water, with a view to the determination of the very same point.
It is not tifty years since Davy conducted his celebrated experiments on
the electrolysis of water by means of the galvanic current, with very much
the same object in view. It 1s, accordingly, easy to perceive that the
ceaseless circulation of the hquid element from the ocean into the air, and
through the air again to the earth in dews and mists and rains, only to
run once more from springs and streams and Jakes and rivers down to
the ocean whence it rose, must have impressed the youthful science
of ancient and imaginative times with the supreme importance of water in
the economy of creation. But this contemplation of nature as one vast
alembic, for the revolution of that beautiful and lifelike creature, was not
the only motive to its exaltation as the best and first of things in the mind
of Thales. The marvellous cffects of moisture in its varying forms of river,
rain, and dew, in covering the hills, the valleys, and the plains with ver-
dure, during the flashing spring of Asia Minor and the Archipelago, to say
nothing of the indispensable necessity of water not only to vegetation,
but alse te animal vitality itself, must have gone deeper still into the
thoughts of those venerable seers who were first visited by the inquisitive
spirit of wonder.

Willing to forget the moon and all s y science, we have stood
beside the sea a whole year round, and abandoned ourselves to its first
impressions in the spirit of antique faith and awe. It moved forever
at our feet, now driving us before it, and then drawing us after it, its
e ting voices in our ear. One day it murmured about our steps,

the brown earth, and kissing it again, never weary of kissing the
softened beach; another, it was testy as a great wayward child, and chid
the world the livelong day; on a third, it was as angry as a brawling
worksite, chafed along the shore; another time it panted and heaved
ged lashed, Hike a hundred orators arousing the nations with their ire.
Anon it airelied and roared, like an assailing host or an infuriated people ;
and again it thundered responsive to the heavens, Sushing back for
fikh, reflecting an infernal blackness upon the chaos of the falling sky.

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS. s

Yts variety of expressions were as many as the days of the year, and far
more ; but always it waa moved from its very inmost, and always it moved
to the impulse that stirred it, whatever that might be. It never Jay still;
it could not be at rest; it.could not get away from itself. In vain it threw
up spray and vapour and clouds; they retwned to its unresting bosom
through unerring channels. They went and they came as surely as it ebbed
and flowed. They and it were always one; and all nature was penetrated
by the unity. Wherever it touched, living things sprang into being:
plants, animals, and man; only to be resolved again into the mighty
organism of the waters when their lives were done. The ocean, reachi
down to Hades, and stretching beyond the clouds, was the very blood of
nature—‘the blood which is the hfe.’ Blind to sun, moon, and stars, insen-
sible to the firm earth on which we stood, and deaf to the solicitation of the
air and all its winds, we were lost in the contemplation of what seemed
more alive than they; and then we understood how the first-born of the
Wise Men of old pronounced the great deep to be at once the womb and
the grave, the beginning and the end, of all created things !

Nor is it difficult to comprehend how Anaximenes, one of the earliest of
the sticcessors of Thales in what has been called the physiological school
of Greek philosophy, should modify the doctrine of his predecessor, and
assign the foremost place in the theory of nature to air. The ingenious
reader will easily place himself in this new point of view, with the help of
that imaginative sympathy which has just been extended to the earlier
tenet. lt is to be particularly noticed, however, that air was not the
same kind of thing to those primitive doctrinaries as it is to us. Thales
and Anaximenes, in fact, did not fix their cye upon the actual ocean and
atmosphere, 80 much as upon an abstiact conception which they had
formed for themselves of the interior essence of these elements. It must
not be forgotten, that in the childhood of human thought, as in the child-
hood of the human individual, there is no unmistakable distinction yet
drawn between the world of sensation and the world of conscigisness.
The external world is still little more than a wondrous procession, of peL-
ceptions, thought as sensation not being yct differentiated in the mind
from thought as knowledge. The universe is still a passing scheme of
shows and shifting modes of the perceiving spirit. Thales and Anaximenes
beheld the green tree, the blue sca, the brown earth; and not, like Bacon
and Locke, not merely a tree (or a somewhat) so propertied as to prodace
the image of a green tree į mind, through means of the laws of light
and the retina of the eye; Wot morely an earth (or another somewhat)
which optics and physiology make into a brown eath; not merely a sea
uniting with the eye to produce a blue sea between them; and so forth.
In one word, those sagacious children of thought, the ancestors of Plato
and Aristotle, were natural idealists: they were born idealists, not know-
ing that they were so; for they had never reached the point cf scientific
scepticigm even for a moment. ;

Henge Anaximenes is represented as discouraing concerning Bir as the
equivalent of intelligence or soul. Jt was his god—one, eternal,
unchangeable in essence; so that he stood gt no great distance fron that
ancient and public spirit of poetry which fashioped, the languages of Ipan-
kind. The grand difference, indeed, between, Qrpheus and Hesiod ‘an the

4

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

one hand, and the first teachers of philosophy on the other, consists in the
cireumstance, that the latter had developed for themselves and for all
succeeding ages the idea of methodical investigation ; a fact which con-
stitutes them the fathers of science, notwithstanding that their specific
doctrines are now of little use. The conception of one aboriginal source of
all visible things, common to the schemes of Anaximenes and Thales, is a
scientific statement of the poetic myth which pictures Proteus as the soli-
tary and god-begotten shepherd, eteinally driving innumerable herds and
flocks of all kinds of creatures before hım. It is remarkable, in connection
with the Thalesian form of this idea, that all those subordinate deities
which regulate the affairs of nature are figured, in the orphic theogony, as
the children of Oceanus and Thetis: Oveanus the monarch of the sea, anc
Thetis the ocean-bride, Oceanus the male energy of essential water, and.
Thetis the female; Oceanus the positive, and Thetis the negative forces,
which constitute the visible unity of that omnipresent radical moisture,
from whose exhaustless borom all other things proceed. It is impossible
for the imagination of 1851 not to desciy the subtle thread of thought
which séems to associate this venerable pair, Oceanus and his Thetis,
with the oxygen and hydrogen of our own chemistiy; especially when it is
remembered that chemists so thoroughly accomplished as Davy and Prout
have seen nothing repugnant to the genius of modern research in the con-
jecture that oxygen and hydiogen, the married coefficients of water, may
prove to be the original clements of the whole world!

It may be mentioned, in passing, that in all the cosmogonical myths of
the Greek mind there flickers the idea of polarity, the law of the
inevitable dualism of things, the fact of the universal chemistry of nature -
two in one, active and passive, positive and negative, male and female, and
the unity of such mutually-conditioned pairs in this single creature and in
that. We say the universal chemistry of nature; for ıt is the essential
sim of chemistry to discover two constituents in every one thing: sul-
phuric acid and soda in the wonderful salt of Glauber ; sulphur and oxygen
in sulphuric acid ; sodium and oxygen in soda :—and what pairs in sodium,
oxygen, and sulphur? Nor is it necessary, in the present connection, to do
more than state the fact, that this very idea of the bipolar unity of all
sensible phenomena, generalised to the utmost, is at once the deepest and
tle widest of the grand principles fairly established by the genius and
industry of recent science.

Diogenes Laertius asserts that the illugigigus doctrine of the Pour
Elements, with the unspent echo of which we have all been familiar since
the Christmas-games of childhood, was first promulgated by Pythagoras ;
one of those gigantic spirits of antiquity whose personality history can
scarcely catch a steady glimpse of, but whose shadow lies large and long
upon the world of old. If this report be true, it were probable that the
Quaternion was filched from Egypt; and that might be the ground of the
tenacious. conviction of the alchemists, that their mystery descended from
that Jand of wonders and the Nile. It seems, however, to have been
Empedocles who not only gained the dogma a footing in the world, but
also elaborated it into a consistent hypothesis of nature. Empedocles, a
man of cdndition, a legislator, a theologue and a poet, belonged, as a
polosephes; to the second movement of Grecian science. Thales and his
i

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.

achoolmen had attempted to solve the nature of the universe, including
ander that significant epithet the all-embracing unity which results from
the three worlds of sensation, consciousness and conscience turned into
one; a comprehensive definition implied in the very word itself. They
approached and contemplated that universe 4s one and divine: they
aspired to the solution of absolute being. Heraclitus, Anaxagoras, Empe-
docles and Democritus, on the other hand, were context to fly a lower pitch.
They investigated the theory of nature, properly so called, and also, like
Desvartes and Bacon, the origin and methodology of science. If we had to
discuss the great discoveries of Dalton and his compeers in chemistry,
we should have occasion to adduce the atomic theory of Anaxagoras and
Democritus ; but at present it is only the doctrine of the Four Elements
that falls in our way.

That famous dogma may be considered from two several points of view.
It may be taken as a concrete proposition, or as an abstract one. It may
be studied as a particular or as a general tenet. It has indeed been pre-
sented under both these aspects, since the days of its origin down to the
period of its adoption by Oken, a contemporary of our own. Viewed as
a particular proposition, the theory of Empedocles was simply this :—
A handful of wood, or of any other ordinary combustible, is kindled and
burned upon the surface of some «oul bedy . the experimentalist observes
that, while it burns, there rises smoke or ar; the smoke is followed by
flame or fire; moisture or water is deposited on the settle, or any other
cold substance in the way; and ash or earth remains. The wood has
been resolved info its coefficients, factors, or elements; and these are
four—fire, air, carth, and water. But the burning of some wood had never
been a scientific experiment before. It was not a chemical experiment ;
and from the very nature of the subject it could not become so, until such
time as it was intentionally observed with a view to the determination
of the composition of wood. A thunderbolt was not an electrical expe-
riment until Franklin conceived of it as such, and varied it at will, An
initiative idea must always accompany, if not precede, some natural
phenomenon, in order to render that phenomenon an experiment or scien-
tific observation. The intention, the observation, and the conclusion of
Empedocles concerning the world-old process of combustion, then, con-
stitute the first methodical or consciously scientific reflection ever made
upon a chemical transformation. It is therefore nothing less than the
long-sought origin of chemigat,pcience! For~what is a science? It is
the body of methodical or consciously scientifig reflection on the observed
phenomena of any ane department of natme. Is it necessary te the nature
of a science that it be all true, and that it contain no admixture of error ?
By no means: else chemistry was no science during the reign of Phiogiston ;
optics no science during the predominance of the materialistic theory of
light ; the Lavoisiérian chemistry no science as long as oxygen was taken
for the principle of acidity; ay, and the chemistry of to-day might very
easily be proved to be no science any more than the rest. We have put
our finger on the yery fountain-head of all suczeeding chemistrics at last.

The Greek mind, however, could never hold exclusively by the conarete.
It did not or, in details: it hastened to generalise: it loved partivular
Bante indeed, t it never rested until it had glorified the parnou of

Qu

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

nature into types of the universal. Hence their sculpture, their drama,
‘their philosophy; and hence their want of a self-fulfilling science of nature
_ like ours. Fire, air, earth, and water were not only. chronicled as the
constituents of wood or common combustibles, as they would have been
had it been possible for Empedocles to have sat at the feet of either Roger
or Francis Bacon. The four elements were at once canonised as the
sufficient and indispensable components of the whole of nature. There
was, accordingly, an end of chemistry proper among the Greeks at once
and for ever. The first step nobly taken, they never took another. Ou
ithe contrary, they soon refined upon the elements they had discovered.
Demetrius of Abelæa fell back upon the Thalesian notion, that there is
necessarily only one trae and primitive substance; and he represented the
four clements of Empedocles as its visible representatives. Plato seems
to have followed Demetrius in this conception to a certain extent, com-
plicating it with speculations concerning the shapes of fire-atoms, air-atoms,
and so forth; and maintaining, on the strength of apparent observation,
that fire, air, and water are transmutable into one another, but not earth.
There therefore remained only two permanent elements in the Platonic
scheme. One of these was the common principle of fire, air and water,
mobile, penetrating and quickening; the other, the carthy principle of
` things, was fixed, penctrable, and capable of being vivified. Plato, in fact,
reduced the analysis of Empedocles to a shadowy doctrine of dualism.
Aristotle, on the other hand, rejected the Platonic tenets concerning both
ideas and matter, as well as the numerical idealism of Pythagoras. He
held by the Demetrian idea of one underlying substance as the ground of
all natural phenomena. He believed in the one radical matter of the
universe, and argued that the four so-called elements are not such in
reality, seeing they can be converted into one another. What subtle-
tics and inysticisim men arc sometimes led into when they leave the
‘path of observation! But every nation has its function. It was that of
Grecce, in so far as knowledge is concerned, to furnish the rest of time
with nothing more than clews to the arcana of nature. But it was still `
more emphatically the mission of the Greeks, as philosophers, to discover
those laws of investigation according to which alone such threads could be
followed into the labyrinths of creation with advantage. The great result .
of all their centuries of striving was accordingly the invention of the
inductive method by Aristotle; that mighty organon which, almost redis-
. covered, and certainly restated in a more ‘practicable form by Bacon, has
mado us what we now undoubtedly arc—the entering heirs of nature and
"all her inexhaustible wealth.
‘ Such is the doctrine of the four elements. It has been domesticated
with literature for more than two thousand years: it has been sung in
the poetry of every land: it has been attacked, overthrown, and proscribed
‘by, modern science; yet it has actually been revived in our own days“as
‘the basis of the philosophy of nature! There is only one thing more to
be said of it, considered as a particular propasition. . That primitive
‘ analysis of. wood by Empedocles, viewed as a chemical experiment, was
actually. good one so far as it-went. "Wood is in reality composed of
fire, air, earth, and water. They are its proximate constituents in @
manner..” Only modern analysis has gone farther still: it has-divided _
Wee | , Sa

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.

the phenomenon of fire into. the phenomena of heat and. light: it has
. found smoke to contain carbon, oxygen and hydrogen, not to be too
minutc: it has resolved water into oxygen and hydrogen. The ash or
earth has been decomposed into several other substances by its’ more
relentless methods.

The four elements, however, were also regarded in a more abstract and
classific light in the Grecian schools, as has already been observed and
slightly exemplified. Each of them was a type; each of them stood for a
vast class of things. Air represented gasiformity ; water, liquidity; earth,
solidity; and fire, the imponderable forces of nature. Fire, air, water, and
earth were frequently used as the philosophical symbols of what we now
denominate the imponderables-—gases, liquids, and solids respectively.
They became abstract terms, and were constantly losing their chemical or
particular significance in the besetting tendency of the Hellenic mind to
excessive abstraction. It is scarcely necessary to add that, in this abstract
phraseology, three of the four clements are at length demonstrated to be
actually convertible into one anothcr. When a solid body is heated, it
swells and swells until it falls down liquid. On the elevation of its tempe-
rature, the liquid swells in the same way, and is finally converted into a
steam, dry gas, or air. ‘The atmosphere we breathe is the steam of a liquid
or water, which boils at an incredibly low heat; and that liquid is a melted
solid. There is a temperature at which gold itself would be changed into
a thin dry air, fit for the breath of some imaginable creature. The
experiments of Faraday and Thiloricr on the liquefaction and solidification
of the gases warrant such conclusions. The relationship of those threc
generic forms of matter, in truth, is now understood to be unexceptionable
and sure; and the consideration of it casts not a little light on thé prattle
of Plato and Aristotle about the mutual convertibility of the elements.
Nor will this twofold meaning of the doctrine of Empedocles be withoyt its
importance in the elaboration of a just conception of alchemy and the
alchemists, as will soon be seen. In the meantime, we cannot proceed to
that department of the subject in hand without quoting the opinion of
Professor Necker of Berlin, as translated by Dr Babington for the Syden-
ham Society. ‘No medix.al author,’ says he, ‘omits an opportunity of
representing conjunctions of the planets as among the general prognostics of

great plagues; uor can we, for our parts, regard the astrology of the middle’

ages as a mere offspring of imposition. It has not only, in common with
-all ideas which inspire and gẹide mankind, a high historical importance,
entirely independent of its truth or error; but there are also contained in
it, as in alchemy, grand thoughts of antiquity which modern natural philo-
saphy is so little ashamed of, that she claims them as her property.’

. A good deal has already been said about the substantive root of the word
alchemy, and it has thereby been made apparent how little that is certain
can be said about the matter. It seems that we must be content to accept
it at the'hand of one or other of the veiled figures of antiquity, of whom
we can seg: and say nothing. The reader has likewise glanced into the
structure’ of certain doctrines concorning the theory of nature entertained
by the Gréeks. It has been found that Empedocles’s canon of the four
elements must be ‘considered as the veritable origin of the science ‘of
chemistry, although the: science was not Known under any such ri till

act

1a

‘CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

many hundred years after the days of that. early speculator. Chemistry,
in fact, did not advance among the Greeks beyond its illustrious first
“experiment, and the broad but unwarrantable generalisation that was
_erected on it; a thing quite intelligible, when viewed in connection with
the intellectual’ proclivities of the national mind. ` There was a more
urgent task before them than the working out of particular sciences ;
namely, the discovery and the exposition of the science of svicnces—the
science of method. Before they could invent sciences, they had to invent
an intellecthal organ, or conscious instrumentation, according to the laws
of. which the sciences were to be invented. Before discovering chemistry,
‘they had to discover the art of discovering chemistry, to use a strong
expression. Thoir progress in positive knowledge was accordingly small
in extent, and great only in depth; while the successive schools, with or
without a very distinct consciousness of what they were accomplishing,
lavished all the energies of the most wonderful national intellect the world
ever saw on the excogifation of the principles of discovery, the methodo-
logy of science, and the laws of thought. The consummation of the whole
-movement has been represented as having transpired in the person and the
works of Aristotle; that is to say, its consummation in so far as the inte-
rests of physical, and indeed all positive science, were concerned. It would
be more catholic to say, the intellectual career of those schools found its apo-
theosis in Plato and Aristotle, viewed as the opposite terms of one result, and.
actually embodied as one, with some degree of development in Socrates their
predecessor. Philosophy is the true Janus and keeper of peace. It has an
eye for the earth, and an eye for the heavens: an eye for the sensuous,
and all that arises from it by intellectual transformation and exaltation; and
an eyé for the ideal, and all that descends therefrom upon the daily life
of man: an eye for nature, and an cye for God. Aristotle was the per-
fection of the one, Plato of the other, of those philosophic functions; and the
= union of these master-spirits in the person of one sage would make a com-
plete philosopher, in so far as methodology could render him complete.
Were such an imaginary and perhaps impossible being as complete in mere
panoply as Pallas when fresh from the brain of Jove, however, he would
have to. live and labour for ever and ever ere he should become a completed
philosopher in the larger sense of the phrase; for the sphere of objective
truth is as unbounded as the empyrean. That is to say, there is only one
complete philosopher—even the Spirit of Omuiscicnce, of whom Plato has
‘paid it is perhaps better not to name Iimgin case we should degrade his
idea. As it is, Plato was the greater philosopher, for philosophy is pri-

marily conversant with ideas; and Aristotle was the greater man of science,’
' for science has its dealings with the concrete in the first instance.: To use.

a chemical figure of speech, less appropriate than in character, philosophy:
afid the Platos of the world are occupied with the proccss of distillation by
desoent,; while science and the Aristotles are engaged with that of subt-

mation: At the same time, Aristotle could not escape ‘the habit of mind

„ which distinguished his countrymen—namely, an overweening tendency
towards excessive abstraction; and he philosophised’ upon. scienge* more

a

than he invented sciences, amazing though the amount. of his infoxmation |
‘and knowledge undoubtedly was. ‘That -is‘one of the reasons why the,

methodology of Aristotle, essentially practicable although it was; was so
12 ; = i:

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.

unproductive in the hands of his disciples. The methodology of science
did nothing but degenerate after its great development in the philosophy
of Aristotle, and that more especially in the départment of physics. We
have seen that, in so far as a possible chemistry was concerned, the pro-
spect of anything like advancement was at once foreclosed by the’ vast
over-generalisation made by Empedocles and his critics upon the analysis
of common combustibles by fire. It was nearly the same in every other
direction, always excepting those purely mechanical subjects which were
susceptible of illustration by geometry. Unable to use the Organon
invented for the use of thinkers by Aristotle—namely, that inductive philo-
sophy which Lord Bacon has taught us the art of bringing to bear upon
the castellated secrets of nature —they were content to make it the object
of endless and unprofitable discussions. Unequal to the task of carrying
out the intellectual life of Aristotle into the amplitudes of an external and
a victorious development (as Locke, Newton, La Place and Lavoisier,
Herschel and Dalton, have carried out that of Bacon), they were reduced -
to the alternative of setting him up as an infallible authority, the monarch
of their thoughts, and the idol of their hearts. Long, too, did he reign, in
spite of many an indignant protest by the masters in alchemy, as we shall
find, until the final overthrow of the scholastic philosophy by Descartes
and Bacon. Nor would the world have suffered greatly from this protracted
domination, if it had really been Aristotle that reigned. But it was not.
It was Aristotle misunderstood and perverted. It was an Aristotle scarcely
read, known only by transmission, and distorted by the vision of the
schools. It was not the sun of Aristotle that thesc scholastics beheld and
adored: it was only his zodiacal light. They did not study his great
principles of investigation: they merely adopted his opinions regarding a
host of special points; a thing which, donc now-a-days to Bacon, would
reduce him as low as ever Aristotle was degraded by his mistaken, fol-
lowers. The true Aristoteles, that best ending or greatest and fast
representative of the most illustrious line of royal thinkers this world
has yet produced, remains intact. In reality, the methodologies of Aris-
totle and of Bacon are substantially the same. They are one method or
doctrine of knowledge stated in two several ways. The Greek stated the
inductive method subjectively; the Briton puts it objectively. The
Greek developed it from within outwards, like the growth of palms;
-ethe Briton grows it from without inwards, like an oak. The Greek con-
` structed the telescope, leaving it in the workshop of the mind where it was
put together; and no man was strong enough to move it from the tressles,
until the chancellor of Great Britain wheeled it to the air, and directed its.
' reģistless eye upon the heavens.
Qne has simply to understand, then, in the present conneetion, that
during thosé centuries in which alchemy shall be found to have been work-
ing in the mind of Enrope, the dogma of the four elements, the vague idea of
their mutual convertibility, and the supposition of some fifth, element com- .
mon to thé four, or rather the very soul of all the four, were predominant
among the learmed. This, indecd, is one of the undeniable origins of
alchemy; but there is another, for alchemy has two historical sources:
this one in old Europe, and another in Asia. The attention of the reader
must now be directed to the latter. S a

7h “* “4 CHAMBERS'’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

Itvwas during the caliphates of the Abassides, and apparently under
their patronage, that the school of polypharmacy flourished in Arabia.
[he earliest work connected with that movement which is now known in
Europe is the: Summa. Perfectionts, or ‘Summit of Perfection,’ composed
by Gebir. It is consequently the oldest veritable book on chemistry proper
in the world, although it dates no farther back than the eighth century.
Nor. does. the science derive much credit from this performance, when
judged from one point of view; for it contains so much of. what sounds
very like jargon in our cars, that, according to Dr Johnson, the name
ofits compiler has been transmuted into gibberish for the use of indig-
nant English tongues. Viewed under its legitimate aspect, however, it is
a wonderful thing. It is a kind of text-book, or collection of all that was
then and there known and believed for nobody knows how long back. It
appears that those Arabian polypharmists had long been engaged in firing
and boiling, dissolving and precipitating, subliming and coagulating, chc-
mical substances. ‘They worked with gold and mercury, arsenic and
sulphur, salts and acids. They had, in short, become familiar with a
goodly number of what we call chemicals in ordinary parlance; although
there is in reality no such thing as a chemical, for everything is one.

To these Arabians, however, chemistry was by no means a theory of all
nature, considered under the chemical point of view, as it is tous. It was
only the theory of a laboratory full of curious, rare, and aristocratical
substances. Nor were they without their deep-reaching conjectures or
dogmas respecting these strauge things. Gehir taught the principle that
there are tliree clemental elemicals—mercury, sulphur, and arsenic. The
penetrating and victorious qualities of these bodies fascinated his thoughts.
Even gold itself. which its weight, its beauty, and its meorruptibility by
the fire united to signalise as the most perfect of matters, is dissolved by
quicksilver almost as easily as sugar is dissolved in water. Brimstone
pierces iron like a spirit the moment they touch one another, if the metal
ba white-hot from ihe furnace ; and they run down together in a shower of
solid drops, a new and remarkable substance, possessed of properties
belonging neither to iron nur to sulphur.

‘But they had their alchemical theory as well as this chemical one.
They ingulcated the proposition that all the metals are compound bodies.
This was a very natural opinion, and it prevailed during the whole of the
long subsequent reign of Phiogiston. It not only lasted, indeed, till the
Er of Lavoisier, but neither Cavendish nor Priestley ever gave it fairly

ip. The metals are for the most part extracted from what are called
calxes, on account of their resemblance to so many chalks of different
colours. These calxes, rusts, or earthy ores are endowed with neither ‘the
weight uor the lustre of metals. They are as unlike iron, lead, or gold as
things could be. Yet it is easy to change them into metals: iron rust
into iron, lead calx into Jcad, and so forth. They are heated along with
carbgnaceous materials in exclusion from the air, whereupon the respective
m are melted out, and flow to the bottom of the apparatus. Thanks to
the Lavoisierian chemistry, we know the meaning of this operation. It is
the carbon that carries away oxygen from the ores, and leaves the metals
free; for those ores or rusts are composed of that oxygen and the metals
Bspectively . . But at first sight, it must have looked as if the ores got

> 12

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.

something in the furnace, instead of giving away anything: it must have
seemed that they took some principle from the furnace, and so. became
metals. Tt required many a long and wear y day’s work, alas! to make it
even possible for Lavoisier to discover that it was exactly the reverse. `
According to Gebir and his successors, however, the metals were’ not
only compound creatures, but they were also all composed of the same
two substanges. Now both Prout and Davy have leng their names to
ideas not unlike this. ‘The improvements,’ says the latter, ‘taking place
in the methods of examining bodies, are constantly changing the opinions
of chemists with respect to their nature; and there is no reason to suppose
that any real indestructible principle has yet been discovered. Matter
may ultimatcly be found to be the same in essence, differing only in the
arrangement of its particles; or two or three simple substances may pro-
duoe all the varieties of compound bodies.’ ‘Those ancient ideas, therefore,
of Demetrius the Greek physicist, and of Gcbir the Arabian polypharmist,
are still hovering about the horizon of the most recent system of chemistry.
The Arabians taught, in the third place, that the metals are composed
of mercury and sulphur in different proportions. It was at one time a
favourite’ hypothesis of Davy's, that the metallic and other elements are
the compounds of hydrogen (a kind of gascous mercury) with a yet
unknown base, in different proportions. fe tugged hard at more «han
one of the elements to prove it. The fact is, that both the polypharmists
and he are in error. Mercury and sulphur are juct as much (and as little)
elementary bodies as silver and gold, lead or tin, copper or iron, on one
hand; and on the other, the hydrogen extracted from certain so-called
simple substances, by the British chemist, was only hydrogen mechanically
condensed within theit pores, as he discovered in good time. The oldest
and the youngest schools of chemistry, then, are equally at fault in this
particular; and this brings us to the remark, that Gehir, Phazes, Avicenna,
Mesud, Avesrées, and their compeers, did no mure bestow their principal
attention upon those speculations anent mercury and sulphur, than Davy
or Berzelius expended his labour on analogous hypotheses. They were,
in truth, genuine.polypharmists ; neither more nor less than is implied in
that. business-like denomination. They toiled away at the art of making
many ‘medicines out ot the various mixtures and reactions of the few
chemicals at their command. They believed in transmutation, but they
did not strive to effect it. It belonged to their creed rather than to their
practice. They were simply a race of hard-working, scientiiie artizans,
with their pestles and mortars, their crucibles and furnaces, their alembics
and aludels, their vesscls tor infusion, for dcvoction, for cohobation, sub-
limation, fixation, lixiviation, filtration, coagulation, and botherations of
every sort. Many a new body they found; many a useful process they
invented; many & good thing they did. The chief and remarkable differ-
ence between these excellent doctors and the young men at work in the
oficinum, of a reputable chemist and druggist consisted, perhaps, in the
circumstance, that they had a kind of scientific religion over their sweating
heads. They believed in transmutation, in the first matter, and in the
correspondence of the metals with the plancts, to say nothing of potable
gold; whereas their modern counterparts see through every species of
humbug —earbon and a homoopathy, et hoe genus omne!

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

$

Whence the Arabians derived the sublimer articles of their scientific
faith, is not known to any European historian. Perhaps they were the
eonjectures of their ancestors according to the flesh. Perhaps they had
them from the Fatimites of Northern Africa, among whose local pređe-
cessors it has been seen that it is just possible the doctrine of the four
elements and their mutual convertibility may have arisen. Perhaps they
drew them from Greece; modifying and adapting them ẹọ their own
specific forms of matter, mercury, sulphur, and arsenic. But be those high
dogmas the direct produce of Arabian thought, or be they a cross between
Greek ideas and Arabian facts (an opinion to which we incline), there
they are; and they must now be tiaccd into European alchemy.

Partly carried by the Moors hy way of Africa, and partly borne by the
currents of returning Crusaders, this Arabian chemistry was brought to
Europe; and it speedily became inextricably entangled with the fantasti
subtleties of the scholastic philosophy. It was in Spain that it found its
earliest opportunities of this new and not uncongenial development. It
flourished there, in an unprogressive way, under the patronage of the
Ommiades: but not until the tenth century. It spread from Spain to
England, Germany, France, and Italy successively, trom the eleventh to
the sixteenth centuries inclusıvı. It 15 interesting to learn that the earliest
authentic works of European alchemy now extant are those of our won-
derful countryman Roger Bacon; or, as the name imports, Roger Beacon,
a word which is pronounced Bacon m some districts of England yet. In
fact, he is the foremost man in all the school; the first in substantial know-
ledge, and the greatest in faculty. He was born in the county of Somerset,
in the year 1214, and he lived seventy years. Having studied at Oxford
and Paris, he became a Franciscan irar. Little is now known about his
outward life and conversation ‘The people suspected, dreaded, and slan-
dered him. He was accused of having fabricated a brazen head, according
to the rules of the occult philosophy and judicial astrology, which uttered
oracles to him when consulted by magical incantation; he was imprisoned
more than once; and at last he was poisoned by his monastic brethren. A
man of vigorous and erected intellect. he saw far before his age. In a book
concerning ‘The Wonderful Power of Art,’ he condemns magic, necro-
mancy, the doctrine of charms. and all such things. Acquainted with the
Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic tongues, he exhausted all the real phy-
sical knowledge of the day So passionate an instinct had he for what is
positive ın science, that, in the department of nature, he actually claimed
an equal rank for observation with reason; a claim which was advanced
again, and aclueved, nearly 400 years after, by his more illustrious but not
more sagacious namesake, Francis Bacon, the liberator of the sciences.

To say nothing of his philosophical ideas and his other information, in
chemistry he was acquainted with gunpowder. In giving the récipé for its
preparation, however, he expresses charcoal by a word of his own—luruvo-
povircanutrict; either with the view of hindering so perilous a substance
from being made by the vulgar, or for the purpose of slurring over his own
ignorance of the ingredient in question. In fact, gunpowder secms to have
been known to the Chinese before the Christian era. Bacon asserta that
the a lightning and magic, witnessed by the Macedonians at Oxy-

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCIFEMISTS. `

drakes, when besieged by Alexander, were nothing but the falminatións of
that mixture, It was not introduced into Spain by the Moors, however,
until 1348; and it is therefore probable that the friar derived his incomplete
acquaintance with it froin his Oriental readings He believed in the con-
yertibility of the inferior metals into gold; but, like his Eastern teachers,
he does not profess to have ever effected the conversion. He was
eminently practical in the tendencies of his mind, although he retained
some of those speculative views, which we have seen to be deficient neither
in sublimity nor in a species of truth. His faith in the elixir of life was
somewhat deeper rooted than his confidence in gold-making. He followed
Gebir in regarding potable gold—that is. gold dissolved in nitro-hydro

chloric acid or aqua-regia—as nothing less than that terrestrial hypocrence.
Urging it on the attention of Pope Nicholas IV., he informs his holiness of
an old man who found some yellow liquor (the solution of gold is yellow)
in a golden phial, when ploughing one day in Sicily. upposing it to be
dew, he drank it off. He was thereupon transformed into a hale, robust,
and highly-accomplished youth. Having abandoned his day-labouring, he
was received into the service of the Sicilian king, aud served the court
some eighty years. The philosupher, it 1s to be presumed, must assuredly
have taken many a dose of this golden water himself, and, if the Gray Friars
had not made away with him, he might therefore have been alive at this
moment, as stout a positivist as Monsieur Conte! At all events, it is
curious to think that Descartes, the father of psychology, regarded by
many as the inventor of the mductive philosophy, and the rival of Bacon
the Second, should have been as eredulous as Bacon the First about long
life. - Descartes also believed he had attained to the art of living a few
hnndred years, and so did some of his friends. When he died before
reaching the climacteric of sixty, nothing would convince one of his most
intimate associates that he had not been poisoned! In truth, we should
never look at the little particular beliefs and notions of great spirits in fhe
history of science, but to their great ideas: otherwise we shall run the risk
of despising men so exalted in character as to remain fur ever incapable of
despising us. But, come thoroughgoing Baconian will perhaps observe, it is
important to take notice of the ridiculous opinions to which their wrong
method was able to condict such men. Well, one might reply, be just, and
apply the same scrutiny to the second Bacon and ourselves: for the day
wil] secon enough be here when posterity will smile at the Baconians of the
eighteenth century, who brought themselves to think of the Bible, for
example, as nothing more than an organon of priesteraft ; at the positivists
of the nineteenth, who dig overed that thought, emotion, passion, and will
are but the imponderable products of chemical or other physical actions in the
Drain; at the physicists of to-day, who have entertained such images of the
materialising fancy as the matter of light, caloric, electric fluids, and what
not! Perhaps the time is not distant when young children will wonder at not
a few things, belonging to the truth of ingenuous observation, which we are
yet slow to receive; for credulity of temper is even more strikingly exem-
plified in bigoted unbelief of the credible, thar, in tou great a faulity of
sonviction. In fine, there is probably as much nonsense believed and as
much truth rejected, in these our own times, as at any other period. But
it must never ba forgotten, that there has also heen accomplished Ti

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

t
increase of real and positive knowledge in the progress of these centuries ;
that increase being quite as much owing to Roger Bacon and his compeers
as to us; for their part of the task was a far harder one to perform than
ours. There is indeed no room for national or epochal vanity in the study
of the history of science: there is rather occasion for humility and emala-
tion; for those old men worked with grand ideals and small means, upon
an obdurate and an unbroken soil; while we stand on fields which they
have ploughed, armed with an elaborate instrumentation, and too often
guided by ideals which savour more of the shop than of the universe.

The next great name in the authentic history of alchemy is a German
one. Albrecht Groot, or Albertus Magnus, was born at Bollstadt of Suabia
in 1193, some twenty-one years before Roger Bacon; and he died two years
before him; but he was rather later than the friar as an author. Remark-
able for his carly appearance of stupidity, he studied medicine at Padua, and
taught it at Cologne aud Paris. He then travelled all Germany as provin-
cial to the fraternity of Dominicans, and sojourned at Rome some time in
all the odour of renown. Ie was finally appointed to the bishopric of
Ratisbon. A theologian, a physician, an astronomer, a magician, a necro-
mancer, and not a little of the man of the woild, he addressed himself with
particula emphasis to the study of the polypharmacy of the times, and
wrote many works on that and other cognate subjects. He describes the
chemical waterbath, the alembec, the aludel, and various lutes; and shews
himself acquainted with «lum, caustic alkali, the pinification of the royal
metals by means of lead, and the purging of gold hy cementation, to say
nothing of his kn wing how to determine the purity of gold. Red lead,
arsenic, and liver of sulphur, mae among the chemicals on which he multi-
plied experiments. Ihs style of exposition is geucrally plain and intelli-
gible. In addition to the sulphur and-mercury theory of the metals, drawn
from Gebir, he regarded the element water as still nearer to the soul of
nature than either of these bodies. He appears, indeed, to have thought
it the radical source of all things, along with Thales, the father of Greek
speculation, Like all the true masters, huwever, lre was more of a work-
man than a visionary.

Thomas Aquinas, the Dominican, was a pupil of Albrecht’s. A divine
and a scholar, that canonized personage wrote several obscure treatisas of
alchemy. He is chiefly notable herc, however, as having first employed
the word amalgam. Quicksilver penetrates tin, lead. silver, aud some
other metals; opens them up, and makes a homogeneous paste or liquid
with them. Aquinas denominated the resulting compound in such cases
an amalgam, little weeting how much his good word should be abused in
the day» of English railways.

Raymond Lully is said to have becn a pupil of Friar Bacon’s. He was
born at Majorca in 1235. His father was seneschal to James 1. of Arragon,
He entered the army very early in life, whence he soon passed to court.
Being yet young, and having subsequently studied at Paris, he became
not only a doctor, but likewise a member of the order of Minorites; and
he persuaded King James to found a cloister of his ecclesiastical brethren
in Majorca. Ile journeyed through lialy, Germany, England; visiting
kings courts and rich abbeys, for the purpose of rousing Europe to one
grand missionary effort for the salvation of the heathen. It ix said that be

ALOHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.

was never à whole year in one place, from his youth upwards. He visited
Cyprus, Armenia, and Palestine in the character of an impassioned preacher
of Christianity. According to one account, he was stoned to death on the
coast of Africa m the course of a sermon; but according to another, he
died at home in 1315, at eighty years of age, having sunk into futuity
before that event; and he was buried in his native isle. Nutwithstanding
of this impassioned and erratic career, he dabbled industriously among
ihe chemicals of the time; and produced more than sixteen chemical
works. They are much disfigured by unintelligible jargon, and present a
powerful contrast to Roger and Albrecht in respect of vigour and common-
sense. Yet he was the first to introduce the use of chemical symbols, hi»
system consisting of a scheme of arbitiary hieroglyphs. Nor are his books
deficient in observation. They contain many observations on the distilla-
tion of cream of tartar: the deliquescence of the alkalis; the separation of
an aqua-fortis from saltpetre by means of the oil of vitriol; the preparation
of aqna-regia by mixing nitric acid with sal-ammoniae or common salt; the
volatile alcali; alum; marcasite of some sort; wlite and red mercurial preci-
pitates ; and other things. He made mach of the spirit of wine, imposing
on it the name of aqua vite ardena, which it retains to the present time in
soine quarters. In his enthusiasm he peononucedd it the very elixir of life,
an opinion which i» still a favowite amou, our countrymen in “the north.
In a word, he was a restless, intelligent, invendve and somewhat fanatical
busybody in the affairs of the chinch, of science, and of Dfe: an ardent
snd generous spirit withal: probably not unlike our own Priestley, and
not without a great degree of wility in his day and generation.

Arnaldus de Villa Neva was not a churchman like his predecessors.
On the contrary, he was condemned as a haetun, but the pope protected
him from the extreme penalty, as the pope ot his dav would have von-
sented to protect Galileo, if the impetnous Tus ar would only have suffered
himself to be advised. Born in Provence. somewhere about 1240, aad
educated under the famous John Casamilla at Bareelona, he had tu fly to
Paris through Italy for forecasting the deathday ot Peter of Arragon, He
afterwards taught in the university of Montpelier, and was consulted far
and wide by kings aud popes Guided by the rules of judicial astrology,
he discovered that the world was to have been blown up in 1335; a dis-
covery which is surpassed by soothsayers of another species, almost every
month ot every year, in these more illuminated days of ours. Unable,
however, to await the fulfilment of the horoscope he had drawn out for the
Mighty Mother, he died iu 1313, on his way to visit Chk ment V., who was
lying sick at Avignon. He wrote twenty-one works; of which the ‘Rosa-
rium,’ a compend of alchemy, is the most curious, if not instructive. The
theory of the author is very plain, but his practical directions are far
from Incid now. Mercury is an element of all the metals. Gold and
gold-water are the most precious of medicines. Bismuth is called marcasite.
‘The préparation of the ossential oil of turpenti: e, the oil of rosemery. the
spirit of rosemary, long known as Hungary-water, and many othe: gentle
distillations, are all to be traced to this herctical experimentalist.

A couple of Dutchmen are the next to figure in this alchemical calendar—
Isaacus Hollandus, and either his brother-or his sou. These Hollanders
belong to the thirteenth century, Jater in the day than Arnaldus, oe

_ CHAMBERS’ PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

they quote with reverence. Their treatises are remarkable for clearness
ami precision. They were the’ first to give figures of apparatus, a: thing
which renders them memorable in the history of physics. , Writing mostly
in Latin, they sometimes used the German tongue, being probably’ the
earliest vernacular authors in European science—another claim to dìs-
tinguished remembrance. With all their plain dealing and plain speaking,
however, they cannot be said to have advanced chemistry otherwise than
‘as honest, sagacious, and penctrating compilers. lt is curious that yeur
clear, cautious, ultra-sensible men do so very little: that is new and great.
Tt would appear that vigorous impulses, and a certain poctical extravagance
of character, are quite as characteristic of the Keplers, the Hunters, the
Herschels, and the Davys of science, as even that cardinal faculty of the
soul, that first and last of the intellectual virtues, common-sense itself.
These qualities were combined in an excellent proportion in the person
of Basil Valentine, one of the most celebrated of all the alchemists. Born
at Erfurd, a Saxon, town, in 1394, he became a Benedictine monk. He
bestowed the larger part of lis attention upon the preparation of chemical
medicines. It was he who introduced antimony into medical use; the ‘ anti-
monk metal,’ the name assigned it, one might surmise without uncharity,
after some wicked experiments on the stomachs of his monastic brethren.
He made a vast deal of that curions metal. All he writes about it is as
clear as glass, and quite abreast of our knowledge in the present century,
so far as it goes. He makes no mistakes so long as he treats the chemis-
try of the subject The ‘ Currus Triumphalis Antimonii,’ or ‘Triumphal
Chariot of Antimony,’ were almost a model of positive observation, if it
were stripped of its chemico-medical speculations. Drawing a beautiful
but fallacious analogy between gold-making and the restoration of health,
he maintains that antimony is the best for both! He followed the Hol-
landuses in regarding salt, sulphur, and mercury as the three bodies
contained in the metals. He inferred that the philosophers’ stone, or
. peristrophe, must be the same sort of combination —a compound, namely, of
mercury, sulphur, and salt; so pure that its projection on the baser metals
should be able to work them up into greater and greater purity, bringing
thèm at last to the state of silver and gold. But Basil Valentine, the
steady-eyed chariotecr, knew something more substantial than these things.
He knew arsenic and its red sulphuret, zinc, bismuth, manganese ores,
nitrate of mercury, corrosive sublimate, red mercury, nearly all the anti-
monials in the pharmacopeias of 1851, litharge, sugar of lead, white lead,
and many things besides, under these or other names. He precipitated
ikon from solution by potash. He was aware that tin sometimes contains
copper, and that Mungarian silver contains gold. Te knew how to extract
gold from the red elixir by means of quicksilver, and he makes mention
„af fulminating gold. In fine, he may be characterised asthe founder
of “analytical chemistry, that inevitable art which now leaves nothing
untouched; which is furnishing new wonders every year; which tesolyes the:
. food of nations Into water and air, and suggests the possibility of air and
water being some day made into food; which is drawing ‘nigh the very
threshold af vitality with fearless hands; and which is undoubtedly destined
. to change the whole economy of the oftward life of man. | ,
Moger Bacon having thus set the example of enormous industry, and

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS. `

having exalted experiment to its legitimate rank in the logi¢ of chemistry;
Albrecht Groot having supported the dignity of the science by the univer-
sality.of his accomplishments and the elegance of his style; Arnauld having
applied the art of common distillation to chemica: researcli; Raymond Lully
having summoned the attention of the adepts to the products of destructive
distillation ; and Basil Valentine having opened up the science of metal- '
lurgy and analysis, there came upon the field a gigantic creature more cele-
brated than them all: it was Paracelsus. As strong-headed as Bacon, as in-
ventive as Albrecht and Arnauld, as indomitable as Lully, and as mighty an
enthusiast as Basil Valentine, this remarkable man wanted the truthfulness
of character which animated all his predecessors ; and he fell. He was born
near Zurich, at the beginning of the sixtcenth century, his name being
Theophrastus Bombastes; and it is from that surname that the word
bombast is derived—so arrogant, so insulting, and withal so ‘ great and
swelling’ were the ‘words of vanity’ he uttered, when little Theophrast
grew a famous revolutiouist under the far-sounding title of Theophrastus
Aureolus Bombastes Paracelsus! His boyhood and youth appear to have
been engaging, though impassioned and ambitivus. He began life as a
purist, having drunk nothing but water, and caten little else than bread,
until he-was appointed to the first professorship of chemistry at Bale in
1527, the earliest chair of chemistry ever established. As a physician,
early famous like Simpson, he was amazingly successful and amazingly
presumptuous, having been as unlike the great Edinburgh doctor in every
other respect as he was like him in unresting enterprise. As a professor,
he was eloquent, learned, and insolent in the extreme. He burned the
books of many of the authorities before his hustling crowds of students ;
poured his contempt upon both the Arabian shop-doctors and the scholastic
pedants; sounded anew the praises of Hippocrates; magnified his proper
self even more than the sagacious Greek; played all sorts of mad pranks ;
surcharged lis fascinated disciples with his overweening spirit; and kept
up such a storm in poor little Bale, that the magistrates had to banish him
from his chair. After many alternations of fortune, and after having aban-
doned himself to debauchery, this ‘ erring and extravagant spirit,’ this
man of extremes, this mighty agitator, actually died in an obscure tavern
at Salzburg, at forty-cight years of age. We may lament his ungracious
life and his miserable end; but there is no denying that he was a great
reformer; and he is certainly an important figure in the history of chemistry
and medicine. He descricd the utter hollowness of the prevalent scholas-
ticism, as respected physical investigation, with an eye as clear as Francis
Bacon’s. On che other hand, he looked with the contempt of a Carus or an
Oken on the bootless ploddings of the mere pharmaceutical chemists of the
day. ‘He also perceived the value of the long-neglected descriptions and
practical rules of Hippocrates, with the sagacity almost of a Sydenham or
a Cullen. `- In truth, if he had been content to do these three things, and to
do'themawell, he might have become the father of modern science ; but Old
“Legion, wag in him, and he eould not govern his noble intellect. A:nbition,
vanity, tha love of opposition and destruction, and all unkindliness would not
let him be. He would amaze as well as instruct the world forsooth! He
would pit it‘under everlasting obligations to: him, while he despised its
gratitude! Athitet for true glory in his earlier years, he early peoa the

| CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE. -

„victim of a lowlived hunger for power and reputation. The great positive
aim of his efforta was to pluck the panacea or elixir from the secret-
keeping heart of nature, and thereby shew how ommipotent he was. He
did not succeed of: gourse; but he was too proud to own his failure, and
so he talked ‘an infinite deal of nothing.” What with private brawling,
publie haranguing, and ceaseless publication, the student feels as if this
magnifico had only talked and talked, and died in ignominy. Yet he
was a Vigorous thinker, and actually originated a practical movement in
our science, while he certainly brought mere alchemy to an end. Holding
by Basil Valentine’s principles of mixts or elements of compound bodies,
salt, sulphur, and mercury (representing respectively earth, air, and water,
fire being already regarded as an imponderable), he generalised the pro-
perties of those four first principles of nature with great breadth. They
were purely representative in his system of doctrine, as their counterparts
had soon become in the systems of the Greeks. All kinds of matter were
reducible under one or other of those typical forms: everything was
either a salt, a sulphur, or a mercury; or, like the metals, it was a mixt.
There was one element, however, common to the four; a fifth element,
the quintessence of creation; an unknown and only true element, of which
the four generic principles were nothing but derivative forms or embodi-
ments. In other words, he inculcated the dogma that there is only one
real elementary matter—nobody knows what; a dogma like that of
Demetrius and Aristotle, which is metachemical rather than chemical, and
therefore of little or no practical unportance. It gave his experimental pur-
snits a useful bias however. It set hiin upon the search after the essences
and quintessences of things. By a natural, but no less sophistica] slip in
his logic, he vonsidered alcohol as the quintessence of wines; and blue as
the quintessence of blue stuffs and stones! It was in this way, however,
‘that he set agoing that prosecution of the active principles of mixed or
complex medicaments, which has ended in the extraction of quinine, mor-
phia, veratria, théine, and a multitude of valuable proximates. It was
Paracelsus, also, who began that tendency to mingle chemical considera-
tions with the physiology of the human body in health, with its pathology
in. disease, and with the practice of the art of healing; a tendency which is
still far from being exhausted. The works of Dumas and Liebig, and of
the whole school which they represent, may be described as the very von-
summation of this iatro-chemistry, as it has been styled, It was likewise
our present hero who introduced the word alcahest into alchemy, the term
ashy applied to the universal solvent; a word supposed by some to
Hean alkali est, is it an alcali?—but sometimes said to be composed of the
vo German vocables, alle geist, all spirit. It does not appear that
pombastes was a sceker of this universal solvent himself; but the.name
perhaps imports his idea that the one prime element of things, or fontal
matter, was also the veritable alceahest. High above his practice of physic,
his; eriticism of the predominant methods of inquiry, and his multifarious
manipulations, there scems to have flitted the sublime ‘conception of an
‘ unattained, ‘perhaps an unattainable, quintessence or fifth element of
things, which should prove to .be at once the philosophers’ stone, the
universal medicine, and the irresistible solvent.- In order to seize this
eres of existence, and put it on his heavy-laden head, as a crown

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.

of joy, he knew that it behoved him, at the very least, to lead the
natural life of a child in the intellectual life of a free man; buat he paltered
with his idea of his mission, sank.into infamy, and died unannealed. Yet
something that is charitable and thankful, and even affectionate, is. surely
to be pronounced over the squalid public-house where so magnificent, so
outspoken, so effective, so celebrated, and withal so wretched a Protestant
fell asleep at last. But that is a task for the orator or the poct rather
than for the man of science; and the reader is therefore referred to
Browning’s philosophical drama, entitled ‘Paracelsus,’ for the emotions
with which it becomes us to pronounce his motley but splendid name,
and to remember his stormy but bencticent career.

We have now considered the ideas of the Greek physiologists concern-
ing the world of matter, in so far a» they are capable of being represented
as standing in connection with the history of early chemistry; having
omitted taking any notice of the atomic theory of Democritus, because
it has no relation to that history until the time of Dalton, our own con-
temporary. We have also glanced at the nature of Gebir and the Arabian
polypharmists, and scen as far iuto them as Sprengel and other authors
have enabled us to do. We have likewise spoken briefly about the series
of grand-masters in that dim and somewhat treo-masonic department of
scientific history, that of European alchemy, from thet proto-martyr of
science in Christendom, Roger Bacon, down to Paracelsus, the magnificent
victim of his own presumption and the hatred of his age: and found them
to be for the most part a race of brawny inquisitors, inspired by ideas
grcat enough to enable them to live aside from the world, if not above it,
on one hand, and to do a good day’s work for the world, on the other,

To take the ludicrous view of the character of these Arabian, English,
Spanish, German. French, and Dutch enthusiasts for a moment, it wag of
such men that the fantastical Becher exclaimed— De gustibus non dis-
putandum est — There is no disputing about tastes;’ a proverb which
agrees with reason and experience. Some folks will have sweet food,
others like sour better, and a third prefers what is bitter. Some delight
in gaiety, sume in sadness, Some love music, others have no pleasure
in it at all. But who would have thought that there is a taste to which
vou liat sacrifice honour, health, fortune, time, and even life? You
say that those who are addicted to it must be madmen. No! They arc
only men of an eccentric, heteroclitic, heterogeneous, abuormal twn of
mind. They are chemists— gon

* Nasty, soaking, greasy fellows, X
Knaves would brain you with their bellows ;

Hapless, tapless, crusty sticks, —
Blind as smoke can make the bricks !’

" Chemists of lively parts and wide views, such‘as Joachim Recher was,
‘must sometimes make a pause in the toilsome career of their life in the
laboratery, and smile at ‘the grim earnestness with which they hang over
. their furnaces, batteries, mercurial troughs, Bohemian tubes, thermometers,
‘and balances, denying themselves the freedoms of nature, and many of the
dearer interests of:.other-men. There are poets who wonder at the spec-

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

tacle of such keen spirits as Humphry Davy, for example, labouring with
might and maini at the dry births of stone and iron, when they might well
be abroad among the strong and the beautiful, stirring the life of man in
its auguster depths. But a man must work where he is placed; and he
must also obey the hint of his peculiar talent, else he will never do the
most he can for, the race and for himself. These are two of the great
rules of duty. There is little matter what a man finds to be his proper
task, so he rest not until he have won all it can teach him; so he relax
not until he have made the most of it for the world; so he relent not
before he has adorned it with his proper virtue, and ennobled it by his
proper genius. Truth is a globe like the world; and it is of small moment
where you begin to dig, for you will come as near the centre as another
if you dig deep enough. It is at the same time an important, though a
secondary duty of the industrions miner, to ascend every now and then
from his particular shaft, both to see what others are about, in case he
should become the egotist of a single pursuit, and to refresh himself with
the inexhaustible variety of nature and of life.

To return to the alchemists, who were wiser in this very respect than
their successors in these days of the extreme division of labour, the histo-
rian finds that soon after Paracelsus the adepts of lsurope spontaneously
fell into two classes. One of these comprised a multitude of weak imen,
who rode the hobby of the older school; and that very hobbihorsically
too, to quote a whimsical adverb of Sterne’s for the purpose of charac-
terising a set of whimsical fellows. The other class was composed of men
ot diligence and sense, who devoted themselves with infinite labour to the
discovery of new compounds and reactions. ‘The two constituent clements
of the genuine alchemist, in fact, fell asunder after Paracelsus; and both
of them suffered from the separation. ‘The fantastical clement found a
host of foolish representatives, and the practical one incarnated itself in
a company of plain and painstaking men. The celebrated Van Helmont
was an alchemist of the first water in his youth, and a very practical
chemist in his old age. Nor can it have been an easy thing for such as
him to renounce the sublimities of alchemical ideal, and content themselves
with the practicable aims of common chemistry. Van Helmont had
actually convinced himself that not only gold—that sun-bright and almost
beatified body of the soul uf matter—but everything else, consists esson-
tially of nothing but water, as had been told the ancients by Thales, the
eldest of the seven wise men of Greece. Le had planted a sprig of willow
in a, vesselful of such a soil as appeared incapable of yielding it any
paiement ; suspended the little willow and its pot in the air; fed it on pure
pater ; and yet the creature had grown apace, stretching forth its branches,
and covering itsclf with leaves! What was to be inferred from this
seemingly crucial experiment? Why, surely that wood, and bark, and
foliage, and acids, and salts, and earths, and all things do lie folded up
in .Bọme Mysterious hut not inscrutable manner within the elemental
substance -of water. Alas, the experiment was fallacious! «The experi-
mentalist „iq not know that the air around his expanding plant contains
both carbon and nitrogen; that water results from the union of oxygen
and hydrogen'; and that these three gases, and that one solid body, are

„in uy the essential constituents of the vegetable tissue. Van Helmont,,
4 ; |

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.

however, must on the whole be regarded as belonging distinctly to the
new school of practical chemists, and not to the post-paracelsian brother-
hoods of degenerated alchemy. It must be confessed, at the same time,
that the chief circumstance which lent any dignity to the pursuits of him
and his companions in arms, was the stupendous chaos of phenomena in
which they had to work. Libavius, Cassius, Glauber, Agricola, and the
rest of them, deserve to be remembered for their indefatigable zeal, and
for the multitude of single facts they managed to quarry out of nature.
It has also to be recorded of them that, although they were a race ot
pedantic artisans rather than men of science, it was more particularly in
their persons that the metapnysical era of scientific history was aspiriug
towards a more exalted stage of development ; namely, towards the epoch
of positivism, the era of Descartes and Bacon, the day of experimental
vbservation under the guidance of the inducti o syllogism.

It is unnecessary to trace the alchemists so-callcd atter this decom-
position of the old alchemical character. ‘They are no longer historical:
they are no longer with their age: they are behind it. Th vitality is
gone trom them: they inerely drivel on in a kind of questionable exist-
ence. 'Fhey are poor ghosts, being restants that cannot get away: not
revenans come back with some important secret. The life of the time is
ali on the side of the practical chemists after Paracelsus. The misnamed
alchemists are mere manities after that period. They can do no one
useful thing: they ean only compile mystical trash into books, and father
them on Hermes, Aristotle, Albertus Magnus. Paracelsus, and other
potentates that never wrote such nonsense in their lives. They can only
sorm themselves iuto seeret associations, Kosicrucian fraternities, and what
not! Their anonymous gabble is all about suns and moons, kings and
qi eens, red bridegrooms and lily brides, fying birds, green dragons, ruby
lions, virginal fountains, royal baths, waters of life, salts of wisdom. The
seven metals correspond with the seven planets, the seven cosimeal angels ;
and with the seven openings of the head, the eves, the ears, the nostrils,
and the mouth. Silver was Diana, gold was Apollo. iron was Mars, tin
was Jupiter, lead was Saturn, and so forth. They had essential spirits
so fine, that drop after d p let fall from the phial’s lip did never ene of
them reach the ground. They prated for ever concerning the powder of
attraction, which drew all men and women after the possessor; the
aleahest; and the grand elixir, which was destined to confer immortal youth
upon the student who should approve himself pure and brave enough
to kiss and quaff the golden wavelet as it mantled over the cup of life,
the fortunate Endymion of thoir tantastical mythology. ‘There was the
great mystery, the mother of the elements, the grandmother of the stars.
‘There was the philosuphere’ stone, and there was the philosophical stone :
the philosophical stone was younger than the elements, yet at her virgin
touch the groasest calx among them all would blush before her into perfect
gold. The philosophers’ stone, on the other hand, was the first-born uf
nature, and older than the king of metals. In the famous dialogue of the
‘Ancient War of the Knights,’ he exclaims with fond remonstrance, ‘ Good
God, my dear gold, I am older than you P

Yet it was this wretched remnant of @ great school that gave the earlier

men of the present age its impression of alchemy! Now, visionaries of this
end

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

caste exjst in 1851. There are actually a number of as genuine scientific
fanatigs as these, possessed by the very same fantasies, and using the
self-same phraseology, astrological and pseudo-alchemical, ia the Europe
of the present day; but no one would ever think of according any historical
significance to such a second nursery of innocents as that. Yet the sole
difference between these poor creatures and the post-paracelsians of the
seventeenth century, is to be found in the circumstance, that the latter
had many temptations and opportunities to play the Dousterswivel; and
accordingly many a queer imposture was then practised in the name of
Aristotle, Gebir, or Raymond Lully. One might relate innumerable stories
of that sort; but it is impossible to see how such narratives could be of
the slightest use towards the right understanding of true and historical
alchemy, from Friar Bacon to Paracelsus inclusive.

It is enough to notice the fact, that, after Paracelsus’s protest against the
intellectual methods of old alchemy, a multitude of weaklings continued to
dream away their lives among the verbiage of an exhausted movement in
all countries; while a race of sturdy, positive chemists were living to some
useful purpose, and finding out all sorts of new chemical substances in
preparation for the unpretending logic ot a better day. The two streams,
like the unmingling waters of the doane and the Rhone, ran together a
space side by side before dividmg tor ever: one of them to sink into the
sands, like Arethusa, and be loot; the other to gather a hundred tributary
streams, and come flowing right onwards. Alchemy has, accordingly, be
it repeated, no historical meaning—one might almost say, no historical
existence, after Paracelsus; just as the critical doctrine of Voltaire and the
encyclopzxdists cannot boast of anything like a historical life in Europe
after the close of the last century, although there are still men in Paris,
Berlin, or London, who will swear by it to the last. Nor would the
historian ever dream of illustrating tlie scepticism of the senses from the
timid and feeble performances of those fond and lingering disciples of
that inverted psychological alchemy of the eighteenth century: inverti d
alchemy, for its ‘grand projection,’ consisted in the attempt to transmute
everything into nothing; reminding one of that unhappy votary of Rosi-
¢crucian vanity, who chronicled the sad result of all his life in one melan-
choly couplet—

‘t From out of nothing God fetched everything,
But out of all poor I can nothing bring IP’

Yet it appears, as has just been said, that the current notions of alchemy
are drawn trom the etiolated and partycoloured literary remains of those
posthumous votaries of the spagiric mystery. It is from that too-question-
able epoch, for example, that we have the story of a venerable stranger
entering the famous city of Nobody-cares-what at eventide, in the gray
month of November in the memorable year of 1600; of his inveigling the
ingenuous son of his landlord into recondite talk anent the stone; about
their going privily to a great rich goldsmith, and making a huge dollop of
gold out of fin and lead with his utensils; of their selling it at a just price
to the hospitable jeweller; and of the venerable rascal stealing out of the
city before cock-crow with all the good money in his pocket. It was during

the = period, in fact, thet quackery and imposture abounded in von-

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.

nection with mock-alchemy. It was then that ape-headed, nut-hearted, sly
knaves easily found their dupes among fools in high places, as avaricious and
ignoble as they were credulous. It was then, to take an instance, that the
former scamps made up large nails, half of iron and half of gold, well joined
together, and varnished with lacker, so as to pass for veritable tenpennies ;
and then that the latter equally wretched creatures opened their cyes with
amazement, and their hands with greed, when they saw a good golden ingot
extracted from plain pig-iron !

It was then, also, that the majority of the accessible alchemical tracts
and treatises were compiled. The miserable anonymitics who put them
together generally inscribed the name of some grand authority upon these
inane productions, to give them currency. They consisted for the most part
of the wilder passages of the old masters, unaccompanied by any of their
real knowledge and practical remark, mangled, inflated beyond bearing,
and maddened by the poor cross-light» of the actual editors. The reader
accordingly comes upon striking and even beautiful passages in some of
those vile performances, which are frequently just »o coherent, and no
morc, as to suggest the perception that there is a ‘method in their
madness.’ For example, one of some score of masquerading Paracelsuses
opens his creed with these words .— ` All composed things are of a frail
and perishing nature, and had at first but one only principle. In this all
things under the cope of heaven were enclosed, and there they lay hid;
which is thus to be understood—-that all things proceeded out of one
matter, and not every particular thing out of its own private matter by
itself. This common matter of all things is the great mystery, which
no certain essence or prefigurated idea could comprehend. Nor could it
comply with any property, it being altogether void of colour and elementary
nature. The scope of this great mystery is as large as the firmament.
Aud this great mystery is the mother of all the elements; the grand-
mother of all the stars, trees, and carnal creatures.’ i

Such is the preamble of the book; but nothing follows; for the sub-
stance of the treatise is just this same preamble, with variations over and
over again. The penman’s seience is like a strcet-organ of old and even
elaborate construction; but all its tunes are gone dumb except this oue;
and for the life of him he can grind nothing out of it but the overture!

The only supposable method, of course, in which this common matter or
great myste y cuuld produce all the other bodies in nature, was a species
of self-involution ; a rolling of itself into this shape and that, so as to pass
from the unity and monotony of chavs into the multiplicity and harmo-
niousness of creation. Such is probably the meaning of those passages in
the later Hormetics, where it is said ‘to kill itself—to espouse itself—to
impregnate itself—to engender itself—to be born again of itself—to make
itself red—to make itself white ;’ and so forth. Says the Stone to Gold in
the ‘Ancient War:’ ‘ Aristotle says of me—We add nothing more to it. and
we change nothing in it: Oh, how admirable is this thing which concains
all things in itself!’

The modern chemist cannot escape the sense or surprise when, in con-
nection with such extracts, he bethinks himself of the transformations
of isomeric substances and the action of catalysis—two of the latest
discoveries of importante in the science. For example, the gas eyanogen

CHAMBERS’'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

kd

is transmuted in certain circumstances into the solid substance paracy-
anogen. Nobody knows precisely the difference between them, considered
from the chemical point of view. The colourless pungent gas and the
tasteless brown solid, cyanogen and paracyanogen, are of the same chemical
composition, notwithstanding of the fact, that their sensible and chemical
properties are as distinct as possible. ‘They both contain carbon and
nitrogen in the proportion of 6 to 7. Cyanogen can be made into para-
cyanogen, and paracyanogen into cyanogen again. Cyanogen cau literally
be transmuted into paracyanogen, without either addition to or subtraction
from its substance; for ‘ we add nothing more to it, we change nothing in
it; Oh, how admirablo is this thing (cyanogen) which contains that thing
(paracyanogen) in itself!’ Cyanogen in becoming paracyanogen ‘ kills
itself, espouses itself, engenders itself, impregnates itself, is born again of
itself, and makes itself’ brown. Cyanogen may also be said to be con-
vertible into at least other two substances. Cyanogen, the radical of
fulminic acid, the radical of cyanuric acid, and paracyanogen are all com-
posed of carbon and nitrogen in the ratio of 6 to 7. Yet these four bodies
produce, by combination with oxygen, four acids as different from one
another as they well could be. although they all contain carbon, nitrogen,
and the newly-added oxygen in the same proportion—namely, carpon 6,
nitrogen 7, and oxygen 4. Ir fact, these three things, the radicals of the
fulminic and cyanuric acids, and paracyanogen, are only three of any
possible number of isomeric forms of cyanogen; the resultants, that js, of
the self-involution of that gaseous body. Cyanogen is the ‘ one only prin-
ciple, at all events, of those three quasi-elements or compound radicals.
In cyanogen they were ‘ enclosed, and there they lay hid;’ ‘ which is thus
to be understood, that (these threc things proceeded out of one matter
(cyanogen), and not’ each of them ‘ out of its own private matter by itself.’
Cyanogen, in short, is ‘the great ny stery’ in relation to these three radicals,
and in relation to all similar ones which may vet be discovered. And this
great mystery. cyanogen, is the mother of those quasi-clements, fulminigen,
cyauuren, and paracyanogen; the grandmother of fulmninic, cyanuric, and
paracyanic acids; of the fulminates, cyanurates, and paracyanates; and of
all the thousand-and one compounds pro eeding from this great stock!

We could entertain the reader with such new glosses on old texts by the
sheet; but space forbids. We must also omit all reference to the Roman de
la Rose, the Chanon of Brydlington, and other Rosicrucian rhymes, although
we have made some notes on both subjects, which are not without interest.
It is now time to say a few decided words concerning alchemy proper,
considered as one great movement of the human mind in Europe, by way
of bringing these excursions to an end.

The true alchemists, then, while they were also diligent experimentalists
in pharmaceutical and other practical chemistry, cherished three sacred
beliefs and objects of enthusiastic hope, which we shall now arrange not in
their higtorical, but in a convenient order.

ol. They believed iu the alcahest, or universal solvent. Taking that
‘epithet, even in its most literal signification, it has simply to be stated, that
modern chemistry has actually realised it., The element fluorine is nothing

less S the alcahest. Lavoisier once expressed his surprise that it ehould

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.

never have occurred to the masters that no vessel on earth could hold the
universal solvent, because it would solve the vessel too! That is precisely
the difficulty to contend with in the attempt to isolate fluorine. It is:

good many years now that it has been well understood by chemists that
Derbyshire spar is composed of calcium—the metal of which quicklime is
the rust or oxide—and of fluorine, another element, the latter of which
ingredients could not be presented separate, just because no substance
could withstand the inténsity of its chemical action. No one doubted the
existence of fluorine—thanks to Davy’s discovery of iodine, and the sagacity
of Amptre—notwithstanding of the circumstance that it could not be
handled and seen, owing to its irresistible powers of solution. It at
length occurred to two brothers of the name of Knox, that vessels cut out
of tluor-spar itself, seeing it is a substance already saturated with fluorine,
might serve the purpose of catching some fluorine in; and their experi-
ments have been in a great degree successful. Faraday has also experi-
mented on this subject. Fluorine seems to be an orange-coloured gas;
chlorine is a green gas; iodine is a solid at ordinary temperatures, but a
gentle heat converts it into a deep purple vapour. Bromine is liquid, and
resembles iodine vapour when in the gaseous state; but it is more ruddy
than purple. These four elements are deeply connected with one another ;
but be that connection what it may, and even suppose that fluorine has not
yet been separated in the state of absolute chemical purity, it cannot be
denied that there lies the aleahest of old alchemy.

Il. They believed in the transmutability of the metals; it has already
been seen on what kind of grounds. The idea of transmutation, stripped of
all particularity of form, is as old as Thales and recent as Davy, to profane
this page with no meaner name, In one shape ox another, it is ineradicable
from the instincts of the sciefice. It is hardly necessary to add, that if any
one element were satisfactorily converted into any other, this the second
problem of alchemy were solved as well as the first. It is enough to
observe that such a thing is being prosccuted with ardour and conviction
in the present day. Festina lenté !

III. Those European alchemists also believed in the elixir of life, or
universal medicine, capable of enring all curable diseases, and,of prolonging
life long beyond its present average of duration. It was not till the doggge
of alchemy that the conception of an elixir of immortality amused the world.
In connection with this unattainable ideal of theirs, it has just to be men-
tioned that Lord Bacon and Descartes, who are always regarded as the
Castor and Pollux of that luminous epoch of — which extinguished
the medieval schools, were quite as much bent upon the invention of
means for the prolongation of life as any alchemist of them all, We have
already seen that the French methodologist actually supposed himseli’ to
have added a few hundred years to existence; and anybody that has
read Bacon’s precepts on the subject, will testify that the elixir-hunters
could not exceed him either in the largeness of his expectations or in the
absurdity of his plans. Neither is it very easy at first sight to perceive
the practical superiority of the successive medical schemes of Stahl, Boer-
haave, Cullen, Dropesais, and the rest of the xiedern doctrinaries,, over
‘those equally successful and more poetical‘dreamers. If a scientific spec-
tator may judge from the recent writings of certain of our own piyaa d

À CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PROPLE.
' from the articles and letters, for example, of Dr Forbes, the editor of the
-t British and Foreign Medical Review,’ of the late Dr Andrew Combe, and
f a host of anonymous abettors of these able men, the predominant school
“of physic appears to’ be coming to the conclusion, that it can scarcely do
botter than go batk to the time of Hippocrates, sit a while at his feet, and
begin afresh. It is the very counsel which poor Paracelsus thundered into
the astonished and insulted ears of his contemporaries.
Such, then, was alchemy ; such the heaven, the horizon, and the neigh-
' bourhood of the third of the ancestors of the modern chemist. To the man
of the nineteenth century, it must always be interesting to grope away back
‘into those dim and spectral regions of scientific development. Were cir-
cymstances favourable, we should be glad to accompany the student into
some of the more quaint and questionable of those recesses of the past.
We should visit the weak as well as the strong; for there were the weaker
brethren in those religious days of science as well as now. What buried
figures we should descry, intent with sweating brains upon the last projec-
tion ; what minglings of the glare of the furnace with the unearthly glow
of a magnificent, but misdirected spirit of enthusiasm; what perilous
balancings of the spirit between the dread extremes of imposture and
insanity; what thin lights and solid shadows we should beholu in the
murkier hours of that merely starlit night of history; what agonits of
mind and heart! Ideals how sublime, realities how paltry! Tt was their
lifelong struggle, to bring a lofty but imperfect theory of nature into effec-
tive unison with the inflexible phenomena of the world of facts. They
did not succeed, and they have passed away. IT’cace be with them; for
alas! the life of the visionary is the same feverish, uncalculating, unsatis-
‘fying, weary, and maddening discipline im all ages; and there are as
many of those not unlovely maniacs in the epoch of Chancellor Bacon
and Humboldt as ever there were in that of Friar Bacon and Paracelsus.

The history of chemistry, subsequently to the apotheosis of the alchemi-
cal epoch, was not without its extravagances; but it became remarkable
for the unprecedented rapidity with which the accumulation of facts
proceeded. In the hands of the practical chemists, who have already been
allgded to as the legitimate successors of the alchemists-proper, the science
became more unreservedly directed to the positive labours of the labora-
tory; and there rapidly cusued a very remarkable extension of the
boundaries of concrete or practical chemistry. Hence the great multipli-
cation of chemical substances, experimental apparatuses, and new processes,
that succeeded the euthanasy of alchemy. Stones and rocks, earths and
ashes, ores and meteors and lavas of every species, were trituratad, lixi-
viated, roasted, ignited, dissolved in acids, crystallised, precipitated. It
was soon perceived that there is*one not only salt, one elemental salt, but
ta endless variety of salts: oil-of-vitriol salts, aqua-fortis salts, spirit-of-
‘salt salts, earthy salts, alkaline salts, metallic salts, and so forth. There
were forthwith found to be more metals than seven, the seven plancts and
«holes in the human head notwithstanding. These were discriminated the
mineral, the vegetable, and the volatile alkalis. At length a great chemical
principle began to dawn in the midst of ail these gathering and crowding
a the gleam of untouched phosphorus in the dark. In short, the

ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.

new chemists began to surmise that the chemical act of barning, or the pro- `
cess of combustion, as it is now called, is a process of first-rate importance
and significance in the science of chemistry., They descried that the right
explanation of the burning of wood, of brimstone, of anything, in fine,
is susceptible of combustion, would reveal a eritical secret of this d
ment of knowledge. It was the distinct perception of this, and the
invention of a hypothesis or theory of combustion, that constituted, or
rather consummated, the new movement, and fairly consolidated a new
epoch of chemical development. Beccher and Stahl were the patriarchs of
this great school—the former as the inventor, the latter as the illustrator
of the doctrine of phlogiston ; a doctrine which sufficed for the needs of the
growing science nearly a hundred years. They observed that the:common
phenomenon of combustion concealed within its glowing bosom one of
those central or fontal facts, on the discovery of which the history of
science is continually turning. Pursuing this clew, which the reader of this
outline will now recognise as older than the time of Aristotle, although
never laid firmly hold of until that of Beccher, they generalised the phe-
nomenon itself in the first place. Their metals, with the quite intelligible
exceptions of gold and silver, were changed into rusts or calces, or artificial
eres, resembling chalk-powder or brick-dust when heated in exposure to
the air of the fire; and this change they perceived to be identical with
what is passed upon brimstone, phosphorus, or any other ordinary com-
bustible when it burns with flame. Indeed, the metal tin burns with a
surrounding glow, which resembles flame so closely as to have hinted the
rest of the secret; no secret now-a-days, since we have metals which take
fire when ‘thrown into water, and since we burn iron-wire in oxygen like a
wax-match in the air; but @-great attainment for the day, or rather the
morning twilight, in which it was first made. Thus, then, in brief, was
the whole science of chemistry, as it then stood, classified under two distinct
and intelligible parts: the study of bodies before combustion, and that of
bodies after combustion, implying of course the study of the vital act of
combustion itself; a very true and useful division so far as it reached, and
certainly most important for the exigencies of the epoch. The chaos of
chemical fact was thereby reduced to intclicctual order,. and made to
revulve round one great phenomenon as a centre. Similar things were
brought together in spite of apparent dissimilarity, while unlike things
were duly separated, notwithstanding of superticial resemblances, and a
genuine reformation or new creation was fairly begun, with amazing
sagacity and intelligence. It is surely difficult to understand how men
like Dumas ard Liebig (to name no smaller names) can content themselves
with asserting that chemistry began with Lavoisier, except by supposing
them Wholly destitute of the historical sense, and incapable of secing that
their own rockfast-Lavoisicrianism is also doomed; not indeed to he over-
thrown (for nothing that is partly true can ever be wholly overthrown),
but superseded just as completely as phlogiston, alchemy, or polypharmacy.
It would be quite as rational for a geologist to date the origin of the
visible world from the tertiary scries, or the diluvial beds of Paris and
London, as to trace the rise of chemistry no farther back than the great
Parisian lawgiver of the science. :

But the old chemists of whom we now speak wero of course not —

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

with the discovery of the true analogy that exists between the metallic
ealces and the acids, and their consequent new classification of bodies; but
‘they proceedéd to interpret the phenomenon of combustion itself, that
seemingly sole and singular agent of chemical transformations. Nor was
th interpretation far to seek, although it required astonishing ingenuity to
apply it right and left, so as to compact the rude and disjected members of
a growing chemistry into one luminous body of scientific thought. It has
already been hinted that Greece has ever been the Ariadné to furnish our
sturdy, erratic, and triumphant ISuropean Theseus with the clew to the
labyrinth it behoves him from time to time to penetrate. The notion that
fire is an actual and substantial, though subtile element of nature, was first
kindled by Empedocles long centuries before Christ : before it was handed
over to the Arabians, it had begun to flicker, and it played a very small
ek in their doctrine: brought back to Europe, and fanned by the scho-
lastic philosophy, it shot up its flames once more ; but it was now destined
to quicken the whole mass of chemistry; and impart that callida junctura,
or glowing unity to all its parts, of which they again stood more in need
than ever. The matter of fire was at length set apart and consecrated
under the illustrious name of phlogiston.

It is impossible to prosecute this interesting subject any further in the
present connection. Having fairly traversed the epoch of chemical history
ostensibly under consideration, and having even crossed the boundary
which separates it from its immediate successor, we leave the greater part
of the story untouched. Suffice it that an affectionate yet critical study of
the successive schools, and their respective leaders, would certainly. prove
as interesting as that of the Greeks, the Arabians, and the European althe-
mists; while it might be still more iustruetive. The phlogistians, the
pneumatic chemists, the Lavoisierians, the atomicians, the electro-chemists,
and the votaries of the new organic chemistry, have all bronght us their
proper trophies and treasures; and the investigation of their several his-
tories and characteristics could not fail to be fraught with the noblest
lessons of courage, perseverance, and devotion.

THE LOST LAIRD.

A TALE OF ’45.

N ORE than four months had passed since the fatal day af Culloden ;
AYA not only had the disaffected districts been treated with merciless
severity by the commanders of the English army, but atrocities had been
perpetrated, which had long been unheard of in civilised warfare, by the
parties of soldiers despatched in all directions to disarm and lay waste
vvery part of the country in which the Prince’s cause had been espoused.
‘ Before the 10th of June, the task of desolation was complete throughout
all the western parts of Inverness-shire; and the curse which had been
denounced upon Scotland by the religions enthusiasts of the preceding
century, was at length so entirely fulfilled, that it would have been literally
possible to travel for days through the depopulated glens without seeing a
chimney smoke or hearing a cock crow.’ The continual escape of Charles
Edward, which seemed little short of miraculous, doubtless tended to exas-
perate the feelings of his pursuers, and to add eruclty to their conduct, when
every fresh disappointment proved the inadequacy of their best-concerted
plans against the determination of the clansmen to protect him.

‘After the escape of the Prince throngh the cordon between Loch Hourn
nnd Loch Shicl in the latter part of July, the military powers at Fort-
Angustus seem scarcely ever to have got a ray of genuine intelligence
respecting his motions; and his friends, all excepting the few who attended
him, were equally at a loss to imagine where he was, or how he concealed
himself.’ The forest of Badenoch, in the wildest and most rugged part of
the Highlands, meanwhile had given him shelter, in the company of his
friends Lochiel and Cluny, to vigit whom he had undertaken so toilsome
and dangerous a journey.

Amongst those in the neighbourhood of the glens in which he now
wandered, none were less aware of his retreat than the family of Mr
Morrisou of Dalesirdie: they had hitherto enjoyed comparative peace,
although living on the extreme verge of Forfarshire, not far fron the’
roads leading from Inverness to Perth and to Dundee. Thishad been owing
to Mr Morrison’s steadfast refusal to bear arms in a cause Which he, in
ommon with many other Highland gentlemen of established character And
prudence, had predicted would end disastrously both fof Scotland and for
the House of Stuart. He had thus often been enabled to gain some mitiga-
tion of the cruelties practised by Duke William’s emissaries; and his wife,

buding Mer hopes on the same foundation, had with great difficulty ob-
o. 67. l

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

taincd his consent to her undertaking a journey to Perth, t8 solicit from
the Earl of Loudoun a pardon for her brother, who had been taken
prisoner, and was there in jail awaiting his fate. The duke had some time
before her arrival passed through the city, so closely surrounded by his
officers as to preclude all chance of his receiving the petitions even of
those who, desperate in their love and their fear, had thrown theinselves
on their knees almost beneath the horses’ feet; and he had left behind
him spirits as reckless of suffering as himself. Mrs Morrison failed in the
object of her journey; but she obtained a protection for her husband's
tenantry, with which she trusted to return home in safety during the first
week of September. The autumn day was unusually bright and balmy on
which she was expected back, under the escort of her faithful servant Allan
Maxwell; and the spot she loved best on earth had never looked more
calm and beautiful than it did when her husband and their only child, a
boy of five years old, stood together on the terrace of thé small French
garden to the south of their’dwelling, anxiously looking oat for some
notice of her approach. It was natural that, under such circumstances,
Mr Morrison should feel unable to apply himself to business of importance
which lay before him; and he determined, after writing a letter in his
study, to proceed at once on horsehack,,in hopes of meeting her. Hie
accordingly summoned Janct Maxwell, Allan’s wife, to take his child, who
clung perseveringly to him in spite of her promise to go with him to ‘the
bounie burnie dub,’ as he was wont to call a pool, in a sequestered dingle
at some little distance from the house. It was formed by one of those
innumerable mountain streams which fertilise the valleys embosomed in
the spurs of the Grampians; and there his mother often took him to swim
his nutshell fleet upon its deep and sparkling water. The long tract of
fir-wood which darkened the hill at the back of the massive and irregular
mansion, lent the charm of contrast to this spot: for it was overhung by
a group of graceful forest-trees, whose shade kept the grass there always
green, and whose gnarled trunks were garlanded with climbing shrubs,
which Mrs Morrison had planted. Here and there the water had w om
away the earth from their roots, and fretted them into mimic caves, in
which Kenneth iiarboured his boats. Ile had once more launched them
on the pool, and was busily engaged in his sport, when his quick ear
detected a slight rustling in the thicket, which rose abruptly on the oppo-
site side of the dell.

‘Oh! minnie, minnic; is it you?’ he cried; and at the same moment
his nurse, with instinctive precaution, caught him in her arms. Scuarcely
had she done so, when two strangers emerged from the wood, and stool
on the narrow ledge just before her. Both were travel-soiled and meanly
clad; the one who addressed her, and asked if Mr Morrison was then
within, spoke in Gaclic, thick and hurriedly, as if breathless from exertion.
His companion was a young and hhandsomo man, whose air of distinction,
in spite of his attire, struck her practised eye; and sh: telt assured they
wore some of the skulking gentlemen, whose whereabouts she had heard
of from the count#y people in the fastnesses of Benalder. She answered
in the affirmative ; and they immediately disappeared.

Janet was about to follow them to the house with Kenneth, whose won-
dering eyes were still scanning the place where they had stood, when a

THE LOST LAIRD.

clang of-armed men, and the sound of English oaths, was heard in the
wood, the matted branches cf which opposed a considerable barrier to an
approach from the west. Janct’s determination to give no assistance to
any in search of the fugitives she had just spoken with, was strengthened
by the uncertainty which attended the concealment of the Prince, to betray
whom would have been, in her estimation, a crime of the deepest dye.
The resemblance of the youngest of the strangers, in the short brown coat
and clouted shoes, to the gallant young commander whom she had seen,
some months before, leading his army towards Inverness, with his glittering
star shining on his breast, and his light hair floating on the breeze, as
graceful a hero as ever won favour in woman's eyes, had flashed on her
recollection the moment he turned from her. As these thoughts passed
through her mind, several of the soldiers issued from the thicket ; one of
them missed his footing as he scrambled over the broken ground, and fell
at the edge of the pool. This accident attracted the attention of his com-
rades, who now observed her, and demanded rudely of her whether she
had seen any one pass through the grounds. To their inquiries she only
suswered in Gaelic, and they were too hotly in pursuit of their prey to
waste many words upon her. A few minutes had now elapsed sinċe the
appearance of the fugitives, who meanwhile had gained the house, and
entered’ the room in which Mr Morrison was writing.’ None ever heard
the particulars of that brief interview; it was only known afterwards that
bo led those who sought his protection through a back-door, and along a
short path which led tu the fir-wood: from it was a continuous tract of
wood and fell, reaching far towards the heights of Ben Uarn, where no
footsteps but those of the Gael might follow theirs. As Mr Morrison
re-entered his house, he heard the brutal voices of the dragoons, who, with
determined purpose, were closing round it. He went out to them with a
ealm and authoritative air, which for a moment awed men accustomed to
discipline, and demanded whom they sought, and what they meant by
behaving in so outrageous a manner in a peaceful dwelling ?

‘We want no warrant,’ answered one, ‘tor searching a house which is a
harbour for rebels; and find them we will, it we burn it down, and smuke
them out like rats.’

‘If the Pretender is not here,’ said another, ‘TH never believe my eyes
again; for as sure as my name's Jem Short, I saw him, and no other, go
sound the hill on the other side of the wood, aud make for this place.’

‘Ay. ay!’ shouted his companions; ‘ why do we stand palavering here
with a Scotchman while they may be getting off: come, fair play or foul,
set to work l

“Set to work, and welcome!’ said Mr Morrison: ‘my loyalty never yet
has been questioned; my people have not one of them joined the insur-
gents; nor is my house a shelter for them. I will myself give you every
help in searching it, and direct my servants to shew you the way through
the woods.’ So saying, the laird, with the assistance of a dozen retainers
of all ages, commenced an active search, not only through every how and
corner of his rambling dwelling, but likewise in the grounds, taking especial
care of course to make it most energetic in the direction most contrary to
that pursued by his late visitors.

The small party of Hawley’s dragoons who had first salma the

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

house was speedily augmented by a larger detachment, who came straggling
up, as they were able, on horseback, over the uneven ground—their long,
loose skirts flying behind them as they rode, armed with huge holster-
pistols and carbines, and their appearance giving altogether an impression
of resistless force to the little band of servants and labourers who witnessed
their approach. At first, the certainty of success, and some respect for the
Laird of Dalcairdie’s character,‘induced them to proceed with tolerable
decency; but by degrees, as it became evident that their intended prisoners
had escaped them, their indignation knew no bognhds, and the most savage
threats resounded on all sides. They insisted on ‘his accompanying them to
head- quarters; and on the passionate protestations of their comrades, that
they had tracked the Prince to the very borders of the estate, two of the
most ferocious amongst them bound Mr Morrison by his long hair to the
tail of one of the horses, and set off with him at full speed “from his hall
door. Past the trim garden, down the hill-side, close by the dingle where
his child remained hidden ainongst the trees, rushed the frantic rout of
men and horses, dragging to his horrible death one of the gentlest and
bravest hearts in all that desolate land. Long afterwards, the track
was shewn which had been marked by Alexander Morrison’s blood. It
broke off at the door of a farm-house, whose master had brought out all his
money to induce the soldiers to set his laird on horseback, dead or dying
as he was: they took his pouch of gold, and raised the disfigured body
before them. They were becoming calmer, like madmen when blooil has
been shed, when they entered the long straggling street of Blairgowrie late
in the evening. Here the road from Perth “joined that which led south-
ward to Dundee, whither they intended to carry their victim; and here
they met a cavalcade, consisting of a lady riding on a pillion behind a well-
armed and athletic man, and four servants who tollowed her.

‘ Let us turn aside, good Allan,’ said the lady, ‘while these soldiers pass.
I cannot look on arms and disorder now as T did before 1 had secured my
husband's safety: my courage sccms to fail as I get nearer home, and have
less need for it.’

‘Nay, madam,’ answered the servant, ‘you have now nothing to fear :
any insolence offered to you would mect with military punishment.’

‘Alas!’ replied his mistress, ‘consider the scenes we have witnessed,
and the more frightful ones we have heard of! What warrant or semblance
af justice do the English troops require, when once their passions are let
loose ??

‘They are coming from Dalcairdie,’ said Allan; ‘there are some of our
people in the rear.’

‘ Heaven grant,’ cried Mrs Morrison, for she it was, ‘that no distnr-
bance may have happened there!’ As she spoke, her pale face became
livid with terror, her blue eyes were distended with the intensity of her
gaze, as she fixed them upon an object partially covered with a plaid,
which Allan could scarcely comprehend.

‘It is a wounded man,’ he said, ‘whom they are bringing along.’

t Dead !’ cried the lady. And it seemed as though the word had frozen
her lips as it passed them, for she then remained speechless, steadfastly
looki ae forwards.

Allan dismounted to help her, but she urged on the horse, and was

THE LOST LAIRD.

instantly surrounded by the soldiery. Her only thought was to reach her
hushand’s corpse, to see if human help was indeed no longer of avail.
And the ruffians whose hands were red with murder felt her agony ; they
suffered her to draw near, and one covered the face, which even they
were unwilling the wife should look upon, telling her at the same moment
that all hope was over. Their conduct towards Allan and his comrades
was, however, very different ; and as the tumult increased in the little town
through which they were passing, Mrs Morrison roused herself irom her
trancelike grief, and spokd in accents of mingled entreaty and command—
‘Let no more blood be shed: enough cries out to Heaven for vengeance
to-day! Only give me a place where the dead may be laid—I have no more
to ask.’

Her praycr was granted; and men who would have scorned an hour
before to have been thought accessihle to pity, now bore Mr Morrison's
corpse inte the nearest house, and rode on, Jeaving her alone with her owu
servants and its inhabitants. taking, however, Allan Maxwell with them. as
a suspected person, to Dundee. Scarcely had they departed, before the
threes of bodily suffering were added to the unhappy lady's affliction ; and
then there followed a struggle with whose mortal agonies no hope was
mingled; and as the chill gray morning dawned, it revealed the shades of
death upon her face as clearly as on that of the still-born infant lying by
her side,

It was a smothered howl of rage and surrow that rose that morning at
Blairgowrie, and was echoed at Dalcairdie, where, towards noon, the corpses
were borne with as little show as possible, and laid in lowly state iu the
dining-room, with a large sheet thrown over them, which fell round the
tressels upon the flour.

Janet Maxwell's anxieties, meanwhile, were divided between her care
for the dead and her feats for the living. With a fidelity not uncommon
in her class in Scotland, she determined to sacrifice every other object tu
the safety of her nursling, young Kenneth Morrison. She had heard that
the soldiers, in their disappointed rage, had vowed destruction to all belong-
ing to the fanily and the House of Dalcairdic, and she now apprehended
their return, both to ransack or burn down the dwelling, and to carry off
the child. Nor were her fears ungrounded; for the day had scarcely
closed in before a number of the dreaded dragoons arrived. They found
the house empty, and proceeded to regale themselves on the provisions
they mot with, to tear down the hangings, and pack up the stores of fine
damask on which the mistress was wont to pride herself, and to carry off
the massive picture-frames. None the less peacefully for the tumult ‘hat
filled the house, slept its infant heir in the arms of his nurse. She had
given him a sleeping-draught ; and then, strange as the expedient appears,
had crept with him under the cleth which covered the remains o“ his
parents, and the infant on its mother’s arm, arranging it, however, so as
to leave their forms visible. The funereal tapers burnt round them, but
there was nothing left in the apartment that could excite cupidity; and
although the door was rudely opened more thaa once, the unlooked-for
solemnity of the scene had so powerful an influance, that it was immedi-
ately closed again ; and all that long night, Janet’s retreat remained sacred
and unsuspected. At last she heard the welcome sounds of the departure

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

of the soldiers; and then she tarried no longer, not even to see the dust of
those for whom she would have laid down her life committed to the grave ;
but tying up a bundle of linen, and hiding some money about her, she set
forth on foot, leading Kenneth, whom she had dressed as a peasant’s child,
by the hand. They had a long and weary journey to Edinburgh, cheered,
however, by the glad tidings of Charles Edward’s escape to France, soon
after his perilous visit to Badenoch.

It may be that Janet’s alarm for the safety of her charge was exag-
gerated ; but being a woman of strong determination, as well as of warm
fancy, she succeeded in impressing it on the mind of his only near relation,
a maiden lady living at Edinburgh, Miss Grizel Morrison, and persuading
her that his only chance of reaching man’s estate would lie in his being
unknown during his short stay under her roof, and bis being educated in
France. Miss Morrison accordingly undertook the charge of conveying
her nephew to St Germains, where she placed him in the family of Lady
Lucan, an Englishwoman, possessed of some fortune, whose parents hal
gone into exile with their sovereign; and whose own interest in Kenneth
was fully awakened by his father’s tragic fate. AN connected with hnn
seemed destined to share somewhat of the same horrors. Ilis aunt having
seen him happily settled with his new protectress, was returning to Seot-
. land with the papers she had had drawn up at St (cermains, duly attesting
his right to his family estate, when the diligence in which she travelled
was attacked by highwaymen near Abbeville. Some of the passengers
were killed, and all their property was carried off or scattered. Poor Miss
Grizel Morrison received only a slight wound, but it proved fatal after a
few days’ illness ; and by her death Keuncth was left, with no legal proofs
of his identity as the Laird of Dalcairdie’s sun, to the charitable care of
Lady Lucan.

z rd

Allan Maxwell had been set at liberty after eight months of captivity in
the crowded prison of Dundee; he then sought his old home at Daleairdic,
expecting to find only a ruin where he had left peace and abundance. How
much was he astonished to see new faces in the familiar place; to hear a
new language; to find, in short, the estare transferred in that brief space to
other: owners, and a distant cousin of his master’s, James Morrison, mer-
chant of London, installed in full possession of the family property. Few
of the former tenants were left; but in a cabin belonging to one of these
he found his faithful Janet, whose presence beneath his prison walls had
cheered and assisted him from the time she had provided for the young
laird’s safety till within a few days of his release. Her tale was told in
few words, and consisted chiefly of the relation of the ravages of Hawley's
brigade in that part of the country. Under pretence of avenging the
escape of the Prince, they had dismantled the village of Dalcairdie, turning
out its defenceless inhabitants to the shelter of the wintry hills; many had
been shot on the mountain-side in mere wantonness; the cattle and pro-
visions of all sorts had been carried off to the camp, and numbers had
perished for hunger. Under such circumstances, it was scarcely a sub-
ject of regret to the unfortunate tenantry of the late laird, that one of
his uame, Englishman though he was by birth and education, should
Come to the estate; for they hoped to gain from him something of the

THE LOST LAIRD.

protection to which they had been accustomed from the lords of the
soil: nor were they wholly disappointed. Janet Maxwell, who had re-
mained hidden in the remote hut to which she had betaken herself,
speedily induced her husband to go with her into ihe neighbourhood of
Dunkeld, to the house of a friend of her master’s, Mr Lindsay of
Kincaldrom: in whom alone she thought she could trust. By slow
degrees quiet was restored in the neighbourhood under the auspices of
Mr James Morrison, who was a stanch Hanoverian; and his ignorance
of the language and habits of his people assisted him in the comfortable
assurance, that no lurking suspicion of the justice of his claim was left
amongst them. In a time so troubled and sanguinary as that we have
described, the strange fate «* Miss Grizel Morrison excited little interest
beyond the circle of her friends at Edinburgh, who had all more immediate
subjects of auxiety or sorrow; and as the object of her journey to Franoe
had been unknown, the whole story, united with that of her unfortunate
relatives, was soon mixed up with a mass of falsc statements, and in a few
years almost forgotten.

Kenneth meanwhile grew up to man’s estate, under the watchful care of
Lady Lucan, and that of an old Episcopalian clergyman named Ross, who
performed the duties of a domestic chaplain amongst some of the English
families resident at St Germains. His pupil acquired an education which
was far more suited tu polish the mamicrs and to give elegance and activity
to the mind, than any he could have obtained in either the English or the
Scottish schools. Tie was a noble and high-spirited youth; but from the
time in which he heard the tale of his father’s murder, and of his mother’s
broken heart, a shade of melancholy came over him; and the uncertainty
of his future lot inclined him: more and more to indulge i in those romantic
dreams which shed so fair a colouring upon the morning of life, and fade
away so soon into the common light of the work-day world. Janet Max-
well had lung become a widow, and still lived in the family of Mr Lindsay,
who had immediately given her a home in his house on hearing the portiqn
of her story which she chose to disclose, and intrusted his only child to her
care—a beautiful little girl named Marion, who was then only two years
old. Janet had set her heart on Kenneth's existence remaining unknown
at Dalecairdie uutil he was of an age to enter on the possession of his
birthright ; but she occasionally dropped mysterious hints to Marion of the
certainty of his return from some foreign land (and France and Persia
seemed about equally distant to her) to claim the estate of his forefathers,
and with it, like the enchanted prince of a fairy tale, the hand of her
Snowdrop—her sweet Marion Lindsay. At nineteen, Marion's affections
were free; and it was but natural that her imagination should be captivated,
for there were none of the young men who frequented her father’s house
who could bear a moment's comparison with the picture she had foimed
in her own mind of the lost Laird of Dalcairdie. When she chanced to
hear an allusion to his supposed death or mysterious disappearance on the
night of the murder (for Janet had invariably protested her ignorance of
his fate), she felt personally aggrieved; and though in her childhood she
had often spoken of him and of his return home, she now preserved a
silence on the subject, at which she sometimes biushed and smiled alone.
Little did she imagine that the eventful: moment iad arrived in which her

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE. `

vision was to be realised or for ever dispelled, when a servant came to her,
one evening in August, to say that a strange gentleman was in the oak.
parlour waiting to see Mr Lindsay. She had been flitting backwards and
forwards amongst her flowers in her own favourite parterre, and she now
went in through the open window of the sitting-room, where her mother
sat at work, and roused her father from a gentle doze into which he had
just fallen over an old number of -‘The Lyon in Monrning,’ in his huge
arm-chair; and having discharged her duty of sending him to his visitor,
she resummed her occupation without more than a passing thought of who
that guest was likely to be. ‘The room into which the stranger had been
shewn was a long, low apartment, raftered with black oak, and lighted at
the farther end by a latticed bay-window. As he stood by the casement,
with his head half-turned towards it, and his graceful figure outlined
against the golden western light, Mr Lindsay entered, still in a dreamy
mood; and the first sound which arrested the attention of his guest was
one between a groan and an ejaculation, uttered from the recess of am
Indian screen which stood before the door: he beheld Mr Lindsay holding,
on to it with one hand, while he held out the other in a deprecating atti-
tude. Thus made aware of his presence, he advanced towards the centre
of the room, with his uatiye ease of manner somewhat embarrassed by the
singularity vf his reception; but scarcely had he spoken, when his host
exclaimed in a voice husky with emotion, ‘Stand where ye are, man, and
tell me your name !’

‘I presume,’ he replied, in tones that were certainly of this living world,
‘that I ain addressing Mr Lindsay ?’

‘ Ay, ye know it well,’ answered the latter.

‘Then to you, my father's oldest and dearest friend, I reply that my
name is Kenneth Morrison of Dalcairdie; and that I am come to you to
claim your hospitality and assistance for his sake.’

‘There is not a son of James Morrison living,’ replied Mr Lindsay
doubtfully ; ‘and if there were, he is no friend of mine.’ But as ifevon-
vinced that his visitor was at least not a ghost, he also came forward
a few steps.

‘No,’ said Kenneth; ‘my father has long slept in a bloody grave. I
have been only a few days in Scotland; but I bring letters from Lady
TLucan—whose name at least you know--at St Germains, and from the
Rev. Mr Ross, once an Episcopalian ininister at Perth, which must serve
as my credentials.’

‘You have need of none to me, I think,’ cried Mr Lindsay. ‘If I had
not proved myself a fool already, I would say, Trust in me you may !
Your hand, my boy! Let me look in your face. Who shall tell me
after this that. Alexander Morrison's son does not stand here before me,

with his mother’s two blue eyes looking out at me? Surely, I thought,
if the grave might give up the dead, it was himself come in the gloaming
to the old room in which we parted last !

‘Mr Lindsay,’ he said, ‘I must not for a moment mislead you. Strange
as the fact may appear, I am informed that I have no legal proof of my
own identity: such is the opinion of Mr Ross, in whose judgment T have
‘reason to confide; such will probably be your own when you have heard
my a

THE LOST LAIRD.

‘A fig for lawyers!’ exclaimed Mr Lindsay. ‘ But, my dear boy, you
shall tell it to us all. , My wife and Marion must hear it ; “ay, and old Janet
too. Janet!—I might have thought of -her before! p So saying, and
scarcely apologising for his abrupt departure; the Laird of Kincaldrum
left the room; and being left once more alone, Kenneth—after glancing
along the book-shelves near the window, as every lover of reading must
mechanically do—occupied himself in scanning the features of the view
which spread before it. But once more his meditations were inter-
rupted by an unusual grecting. He had scarcely turned his head, on
hearing footsteps approaching, when he saw with Mr Lindsay an old
woman of low stature bending forwards with her keen eyes rivetted
upon him, under the shade ~f the tartan which she wore over her snow-
white cap. In another moment she gave a piercing cry, and then sprang
towards him as a dog would fawn upon a long-absent master.

‘Janet !’ cried Kenneth, throwing his arms round her, and stooping to
kiss her pale forchead : ‘many years have passed since you watched over
me; but I feel it is indeed like coming home to find you here l’

‘Who shall doubt now,’ cried Kincaldrum triumphantly, ‘that our ain
bairn has come back to us? Come, come, Janet; we must have no tears!
All should look bright upon him, and you most of all; for was it not to
you he owed his safety? Woman, you have trifled with us over-long!
But I had always some suspicion of the truth that you had a knowledge
you did not choose to declare !’

‘The time is come to declare it,’ said Janet; ‘hut first let me see him
better for myself.” She drew him towards the fading light, as gently as
if he had been a child still, and made him sit down on the low window
seat, while she passed her withered hand through his luxuriant hair and
over his face. ‘I could swear to him now,' she cried, ‘were I blind!
The righteous tell, but he was not forsaken; and lo! his son is raised up in
his stead! Oh, blessings on the day which has brought Kenneth Morrison
back to wed the Snowdrop of Kincaldrum !’

‘I desire, Janet,’ said Mr Lindsay, ‘that you will utter no more of your
fancies on this subject : I warn you that they are most displeasing to
Marion, as well as to her mother and myself.’

In perfect ignorance of what sort of damsel his destined bride might
be, Kenneth could not avoid s:uiling at the whimsical turn Janet's thanks-
giving had taken; especially as Mr Lindsay appeared exceedingly annoyed,
and as the old woman kept muttering, ‘What is decreed maun come to
pass, let wha will try to hinder!’ But she was now hastily dismissed,
with injunctions not to spread the news through the house—a caution
which greatly offended her, having, as she said, ‘Kept the secret of her
bairn’s very existence close cnough for many a weary year already.’

‘Not so closely as she thinks, poor old body,’ observed Mr Lindsay ;
‘though, to be sure, I was rather taken aback by the unlooked-for resem-
blance to your father when I first entered the room. Now that will de a
good proof to the lawyers, I think, when we come to the point. We may
as well keep our own counsel now, and not set James Morrison on the
scent too soon ; for he is as wary as a fox, and will require canny dealing.’

On reaching the room in which we left Marion and her mother, Kenneth

perceived at a glance that they were already informed of his ug and
No, 67. a

a ie cia PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE. '

were awaiting his appearance with some agitation. Mrs Lindsay, whose
heart was always open to, every motherly feeling, was ready to welcome
him with overflowing eyes, and to give him full credit for all Janet’s
praises. Marion neither blushed nor looked conscious when he turned
_ from her mother’s greeting to address himself to her, for she had suddenly
felt her day-dream vanish into thin air in his actual presence; not because
‘he was less handsome or pleasing in manner than she had expected, but
because it was a very different thing to form a picture in her own mind
from all ideal excellences, and to behold before her a young man who
bore the. impress of good sense and good breeding in every tone and
gesture, but who, she instantly felt, might very probably never think of
her at all. She was surprised at the ease with which she now conversed
with this hero of her fancy. And Kenneth, in his turn, thought her
frank and simple manner as winning as the sweetness of der countenance.
During the hospitable supper, which - was soon set before the young guest,

the conversation naturally turned on the scenes in which he had passed
the greater part of his life; and he described the little English and Irish
colony at St Germains, with all the peculiaritics of their situation, and
dwelt on the chivalrous feelings which had led to it, in language that went
straight to Mr Lindsay’s heart.

‘Ay,’ he said, ‘I knew almost all who are living there now in poverty
and exile, when their youth was full of hope and enterprise: gallant hearts
they were as ever beat ; and age caunot much have changed them.’

‘It is touching,’ said Kenneth, ‘to see how little they have altered; how
deep their love is still for their own country; and how proudly they cherish
the memory of their prince, as he once appeared among them, though
report speaks gloomily of his present lite ’——-

‘1°ll not believe it!’ interrupted Mrs Lindsay: ‘he has borne his weird
many a year, with misfortune and disappointment for his companions; but
he is our own king’s son—a true Scottish prince in heart, I'll answer for
him; and time will shew that we've no call to sorrow for one drop of the
blood that has been shed, one spell of the suffering that has been borne,
for his sake!’ Here the Lady of Kincaldrum, overcome by her own warmth,
burst into, tears; and Marion, rising, went to her small harpsichord, and
struck a few notes of the well-known air, ‘ Charlie is my darling!’

‘The words—the words, my lassie!’ cried her father; and she sung them
with a mixture of enthusiasm and of thrilling pathos which Kenneth never
afterwards forgot.

‘You spoke just now of Duncan Ross,’ said Mr Lindsay, as she con-
cluded; ‘his testimony will carry great weight with it to all who knew
him.’

‘To none will it seem weightier, I imagine,’ replied his wife, ‘than to
our excellent friends, Mr Grant and his sister Miss Isobel: they were
too great friends once, ever to have forgotten him. That was one of the
many stories of sore tribulation that belonged to the rising of '45: you'll
have heard of it, Mr Kenneth ?’

‘ No, ‘indeed,’ answered Kenneth; ‘I know little of Mr Ross's early
histor

f his an old-world tale now,’ continued his hostess; ‘ but Duncan Ross

ns a Young minister most highly thought of, with prospects of advance-

THE LOST LAIRD. ;

ment second’ to none of his age, when first he won the heart of bonnie.-
Lilian Grant—that was Miss Isobel’s younger sister. Well, they just
waited year after year for a presentation, as young folk must often do, till
about the time the Prince came to Scotland, and then Mr Grant was
appointed to the Old Church at Perth. There was much rejoicing that
day; but it soon came to an end; for there was not the heart in him that
he could have read the Duke of Cumberland’s proclamation, threatening
with death all who concealed the poor fugitives from Culloden; aud so, by
reason of his silence, he was led away a prisoner the very Monday he should
have been married. Lilian saw him as they took him past her father’s
house, and there was a glint in her eye, as if she triumphed becanse of his
honour: but she never smiled again. He was put into an awful prison-ship
in the Thames; and when at last he did escape to Holland, the first news
that reached him was, that she was dead. You'll not wonder after this
that a letter from him will reach the hearts of Mr Grant and his sister.’

‘It is a story,’ replied Kenneth warmly, ‘to make his word sacred for
ever; but he caqnot give them such information as you might naturally
expect. Lady Lucan invited him over from Holland, chiefly, I believe, to
take charge of my education, whom she had so generously befriended ;
and when he arrived, I was nearly six years old. Here, however, is my
honoured tutor’s letter, as well as one from Lady Lucan.’ So saying,
Kenneth gave to Mr Lindsay two large letrers, each secured by a thread,
and also by double seals: he took them in silence, and began to study
their contents with the air of a man whose mind is made up. Meanwhile
Marion spoke in a low voice to her mother—‘It, as you suppose, tho
recollections of past days have much weight with Mr and Miss Grant,
surely their affection for Gertrude Morrison will have yet greater. They
will be most reluctant to believe that she is no longer the rich heiress she
has been thought, and to see her turned out of her beautiful home where
she is so justly beloved. Poor Gertrude, how little she thinks what lies
before her!’ Marion at the moment felt as if she could have wished
Kenneth sate back at St Germains, and turned her dark-gray eyes slmost
reproachfully towards him.

‘May I ask, Miss Lindsay,’ he said, ‘of whom you gre speaking? I could
not avoid hearing your words, and they have made me fear that I shall
be beset with even more difficultics than I had apprehended, though of a
different kind. JI confess that Mr Morrison’s probable objection never
appeared tu me a very formidable one, secing that he has enjoyed my
property now about sixtecn years.’

' You must know, then,’ replied Marion, with her cheek glowing as she
spoke, ‘that he has one daughter left out of a large family, and that his
affection for her is at least a redeeming feature in his otherwise cold and
selfish character. So we used to think of him; but even there we may haye
beén unjust '——

' “Your father was never unjust to any one, my bairn, interrupted her
mother with an accent of mild reproof.

‘Never willingly,’ continued Marion; ‘but surely we knew neither him
vor Gertrude till last summer, and then did we not all judge more favour-
ably of him ‘for her sake? At three-and-twenty she was left alone in the.
world with her father; one sister after another, to whom she had Boppe

; : LEO.

a

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

a mother’s care, died by her side: at last her only brother went too; and
yet I ought not to say that even then Gertrude was left quite alone, for
she is surrounded by people who owe her everything, and love her as she
deserves; and she has one friend who would lay down her life for her;
and that is Miss Grant. You will think, Mr Morrison, that I am going to
describe a perfect heroine of romance, from whom to claim your own would
be unworthy of all knightly honour; but on one important point T can set
your imagination at rest—Gertrude is not beautiful.” Kenneth smiled in
answer to Marion’s smile, which softened the glow of enthusiasm with
which she had spoken. Was it so, that the consciousness of his eye being
fixed on her own eloquent features, made her heart beat quicker, and her
cheek flush again? If so, the emotion passed as rapidly as it had arisen ;
for a new thought had taken possession of her active mind; and it lent a
softer light to her countenance as she repeated, bending her head over
some work she had taken up from the table, ‘Gertrude is not beautiful :
who that knew her would ever think of that ?’

t'I like, of all things,’ said Kenneth gaily, ‘to hear one lady describe
another. Tell me what she is like? Did you see her at Daleairdie ?’

‘No,’ replied Marion: ‘that is the last place in Scotland my father would
have wished me to go to; though, indeed, Gertrude did most kindly ask
me there. J only saw her with her friends the Grants. As to her face, L
cannot describe it; no one would think of painting such a one: but if an
artist ever did give a correct idea of it, 1 should say he deserved a place
with those grand old masters who painted the spirit shining throngh the
material part.’

‘Bless the bairn!’ exclaimed Mrs Lindsay, ‘what is she after? You
have a most pleasan. voice, Marion, my dear; but what your words signify
I know not; and you are not used to talk with so little meaning.’

Kenneth looked, however, as if he quite understood her. Mr Lindsay
had by this time completely studied the letters he had given him, and now
looked up with a puzzled expression which did not escape his daughter's
observation. ‘I should certainly prefer,’ he said, ‘consulting Mr Grant
before we take any decided step in this business. Ye is as great a friend
of the Morrisons as if he were sib to them; but there is not a man for all
that whom I would sooner trust, for he always sees straight into the heart
of any matter that is set before him. It appears that there is legal proof
wanting, that you, Kenneth Morrison, whom Lady Lucan testifies tu having
recvived froin the hands of Janet, are the same who three months pre-
viously disappeared from Dalcairdie ; and therefore it behoves us to have
recourse to one who knows the law, and yet can discern more than what
Jaw-books can tell.’ . |

‘Such is the judge I would choose,’ replied Kenneth; ‘and I comuinit
myself to ) our guidance most willingly.’

“We should set out in good time to-morrow,’ said Kincaldrum; ‘ but

‘before we separate to-night, give us one more song, Marion, and let it be
the one you used tu be so fond of—

“I hae nae kith, I hae nae kin,
7 Nor ane that’s dear to me.” ’

aron sung as she was requested, but her voice faltered for a minute,

THE LOST LAIRD. `

till the exquisite melody seemed to inspire her; and then as she went on,
Kenneth asked himself whether it had happened to him, as in an Eastern
tale, that he had dreamed of the lovely form which now for the first time
was near him. He had indeed been haunted by a vision of beauty and of
grace; for he remembered his mother, and all that was most noble and
purest in the character of woman had woven itself in his mind round
that dim soft image, till it had become a spell to guard him from every
unworthy passion. Strangely it rose before him while Marion sung, and
surrounded her with its sanctity. Where had he heard her voice before ?
When she ceased, he drew a long breath, but no words of compliment
would come to his lips.

‘You doubtless know that song?’ said Mr Lindsay, trying to look
perfectly unconcerned.

‘I have often heard it,’ replied Kenneth, ‘amongst the English in
France; but as Miss Lindsay sung it now, a recollection of home, of my
father’s house, came over me with wonderful distinctness. I could almost
have fancied myself a child again, playing by am open window that looked
out over a broad valley, in which gleamed distant waters. Yes! the sun
was sinking behind a group of dark trees to the left, and I was told of the
blood that was poured out in Scotland like water. The river looked blood-
red while Janct—for she I believe it was—spoke to me. Miss Lindsay,
you are a sorceress from my native gleus, and your power has been
exerted to-night to bring the long-forgotten past hcfore me!’

‘Accuse Janet, then, of witchcraft, rather than me, replied Marion.
‘She taught me that melody almost as soon as 1 could speak; and I have
no doubt given it the peculiar character of her singing, which used to be
wild and plaintive in no ordinary degree.’

At that moment the door opened, and Janet made her appearance,

‘I was coming ben,’ she said, ‘when I heard Miss Marion singing, and I
stopped on the stairhead to hearken. It was just my own sweet leddy’s
song that she lo’ed sae weel, and that I taught my Lily because she lo’ed
it, and for anither reason too. But the weird in a’ things maun come to
pass that has begun this night. But eh, Kincaldrum, I wonder at you
keeping up the bairns this late, and that puir lad sae weary wi’ his lang
travel l’

‘Confess now, Janet,’ said Mrs Lindsay kindly, ‘that you are longing to.
have him all to yourself in his own chamber.’

‘TI no deny it,’ answered Janet.

But here Mr Lindsay interfered. Ie explained briefly to the old
woman his purpose of accompanying Kenneth on the morrow to Dunkeld,
to consult Mr Grant; and then exacted a promise from her that she would
not again speak to Kenneth until their return, which she gave somewhat
reluctantiy. Wher at last Kenneth sunk to sleep on his snow-white
pillows, he was startled at seeing her once more bend over him with her —
finger on her lips.

The following morning, after a substantial breakfast, which Mr Lindsay
intimated might precede a long ride, Kenneth set off with his host to the ~
neighbouring town of Dunkeld, from whence, indecd, he had come on, the
previous evening. Thcy dismounted at the door of a large old dit oa

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

' the cathedral, and found Mr Grant in the garden, taking his usual morning
exercise up and down a trim gravel walk, which, being at the back of the
house, overlooked the magnificent terrace on the east bank of the Tay.
He was a little spare man, remarkably alert in all his movements, with a
twinkle in his eyes, and a good-humoured expression about his mouth,
which gave a peculiarly cordial character to the greeting with which he
hastened forward to meet his visitors Mr Lindsay had his business too
much at heart to make any long introdu: tion to the story he had come to
tell, and the old lawyer was speedily put in possession of every fact with
which he was himself acquainted. They had concinued pacing up and
down the garden, and Kenneth observed the effect of the communication
on Mr Grant’s cautious countenance, without being able clearly to decipher
its expression. At length he stopped short in his walk, and looking full
at Kenneth, he said—‘ Mr Morrison (for so I willingly address you), the
subject on which my friend Kincaldrum has done me the honour to consul.
me is one more interesting to mv sister and mvscIf than you would readily
suppose. It involves, at least to a great degree, the fortunes and future
prospects of highly-esteemed friends. Such 1 reckon James Morison, now
of Dalcairdie, and the young lady his daughter. He begs me to inform
him what I consider the surest means of turning them out of house and
home, and i answer boldly—prove your right to the inheritance, and they
will surrender it to you without hesitation, whether any mere law-quibblcs
interfere or not.’ ,

‘On no other grounds,’ 1 plied Kenncth, ‘than such as may fully sati-ly
a candid and clear-sighted man, would F wish to stand for my rizht.
Would it not be wll that I should communicate at once with Mr James
Morrison, which strikes inc as the most stuaehtlorward course to pursm ?
I should then caplain the singular promise caacted by Janet from my aunt,
and considered binding by Lady Lucan and Mr Ross. This alone can
account for the silence preserved with regard to me, and for my being
knowa in France by no other name than Kenneth Lacan —a distant relation,
as was supposed, of the husband of my benefactress.’

Mr Grant mused for a minute, sull keeping his eye fixed on Kenneth’s
open countenance, and then answered—‘ No’ I think the first thing to be
done is to ascertain the degree of evidence that can be afforded by the
people still living, with whom, according to Janet’s account, those weeks
were passed which intervened between the day you were carried from your
father’s house, and that on which you were placed under Miss Grizel’s care.
1 am well assured that your cousin will yield only to such proof as will
stand the clearest daylight; but to that, believe.me, he will give up the
broad lands he now holds as fairly as you could desire.’

‘Then I entreat of you,’ said Kenneth eagerly, ‘let me sct off this very
day to obtain it! I feel that if ouly my claim were allowed, and my father's
name borne in that place in which he died so foul a death, I could even be
content to go iuto poverty and exile once more with a light heart ’-—

‘No need for that, my boy!’ interrupted Mr Lindsay. ‘I entirely
approve of our friend’s suggestion, and I will myself accompany you to the
Highlands, where '——-

‘I beg your pardon, Kincaldrum,’ said Mr Grant; ‘but before the journey
is para let me speak a word to you in privato. Mr Morrison, I will

THE LOST LAIRD.

consign you to my sister's care for half an hour; she will be glad to hear of
our friends over the water; and we, meanwhile, will consider the letters
you have brought with you.’ So saying, Mr Grant led the way into an
old-fashioned parlour, which reminded Kenneth not a little of some he
remembered at St Germains. It was rich in two beautiful Indian cabinets,

on the tops of which were ranged strange Eastern monsters, and rare old .

china; the oaken floor was covered only in the centre by a Turkey carpet;
and from’ beneath the tall, slender-legged tables, rose iarge jars, which
exhaled the perfume of a long‘summer of roses. This was Miss Grant's
favourite sitting-room, and her brother did not venture to take his guests
into it without special permission asked and received. Kenneth was then
formally introduced to her as Mr Lucan, just arrived from St Germains;
and he observed the quick flush which passed over her faded features as
she heard the name of the place which was associated with all her youth
had held dearest, and all that was still most sacred to her feelings. She
soon discovered Kenneth’s connection with Mr Ross, from which moment
he evidently gained great favour in her eyes; and the conversation passed
rapidly over his Jong abode in Franee, his friends, and his pursuits, until,
being somewhat carcless himself as to whether his gentle hostess became
aware of the object of his visit to Scotland or not, he perceived without
uneasiness that she more than half suspected his parentage; but her abrupt
reference to Miss Grizel Morrison was cut short by the entrance of her
brother and Mr Lindsay.

‘You will be surprised, sister, said the former, ‘to hear that I have
accepted Kincaldrum’s proposal to make a short journey with him, and
with our young friend, to whom he is anxious to’shew some of the beauties
of our northern glens.’

‘And how long do you mean to be absent?’ asked the lady. ‘Surely
you have had rambling enough about those awsome lone places in your
day tu abide quiet now, like any other douce man at your time of life. “I
have heard tell, too, that there are threatenings of a tlood through the glens.’

‘We will aye hope for the best, answered her brother cheerfully; ‘only _

do you, Isobel, hasten our dinner hour. I have already sent to Mrs Lindsay
for her husband's valise, and yours, Mr Lucan, I know is here; so that

with stout ponies, and Donald tor our man-at-arms, we shall return home— -

let me see, this is Tuesiay— by Saturday at the farthest.’

Miss Grant was probably accustomed to peremptory decisions on her
brother’s part, for she made no farther objections; and within three Hours
‘of that time Kenneth had the infinite satisfaction of seeing all prepared fur
a journey which; Mr Lindsay informed him, would take him amongst some
of his father’s most faithful fricnds. The glorious sun of August was
shedding its full tide of splendour on the woods and mountain scenery with
which Dunkeld is encircled, when they set out on their proposed expedi-
tion. Miss Grant, having watched the little cavaleade—consisting of thers-
selves and a couple of servants, well armed 'with hunting weapons—turn the
corner of the street which led from her dwelling, sat down at her desk
to console herself for her brother’s unwonted taciturnity by inditing ‘a

Jong letter to Gertrude Morrison, containing, amongst other particulats

of her domestic history, a full account-of the young stranger, with a

venture of a surmise as to his errand to the Highlands, wae ahe ,

$

ope CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

wond willingly have retracted after the epistle had been despatched that
sàme evening. Ei

It was not:long before the travellers found themselves at the entrance of
the Pass of Killiecrankie; and as Kenneth looked up to the line of naked
precipices, with the hanging birchwoods beneath, clothing the terraced
sides: ofthe lower hills, he thought no more fitting place could be imagined
for those to hide in who sought to escape pursuit or detection.

‘How many,’ he said to Mr Lindsay, who was riding near: him, ‘have
given thanks to God for the mountains during the troubled years that have
passed over this poor country!’

‘You may well say so,’ he replied : ‘there are safe enough corners here,
no doubt, to play at hide-and-seek in; but they are not to equal those’ we
shall see to-morrow. I did not “go out” myself, any more than my friend
Grant; but PH not deny my predilections were in tavour of those who did;
and many a queer visit have I paid before the affair was well blown over,
in the country we are now coming to.’

‘You have already led me to suppose,’ said Kenneth, ‘that I shall soon
sec some of my father’s friends; but eurely it is not in concealment that we
are to luok: for them ?’

‘Scarcely in concealment,’ answered Mr Grant from behind: ‘ but the
man whom I wish first to speak to on this business leads a life which has
exposed him to sundry perils from the magistracy; and yet I'll not say
but that he is‘an honest man for all that. He is a cattle-dealer, and, as
such, has need of more than one lodging amongst the mountains. It is mugh
to his credit that, although he has been suspected many times of disloyal
practices, no deed of violtnce or of fraud has ever heen laid at his door ;
and partly from his skill in keeping out of the way in bad times, partly
from his character for general integrity, Ewen Cameron has weathered the
storm better than any one of his class; and though he himself is not often .
met with at fair or mart, his sons cafry on business openly, and nothing is
heard to his dispraise. We shall find him to-morrow somewhere on the
lower hills of Benuarn.’

We may not linger on the road pursued by Kenneth and his companions:
it was late before they reached the little inn above Clachag, at the northern
extremity of Glen Tilt ; and after the fatigues of the day, they easily con-
tented themselves with such refreshments as it offered.. Kenneth soon fell
asleep, wrapped in his plaid; and the following morning they were again
early on their way, fortified with some slices of dried venison and a-draught
: of whisky. They now left the high road, and struck across the tracts to

the east, which Donald, Mr Grant’s favourite servant, was remarkably
expert at finding: he was a kinsman of Cameron’s, having married one of
his daughters, who was now dead, and could generally tell his whereabouts.
As they approached Benuarn, Donald hastened on to acquaint his father-
‘in-law with their purpose, and returned in due time with a fine-looking
young man, one of Cameron’s sons, who delivered a courteous message
from him, and led them to a narrow platform some little way up the moun-
tain, where the old man stood ready to welcome them. He was dressed
in the Lowland fashion : his snow-white hair formed a singular contrast to
his weather-beaten complexion and keen dark eye, and he looked as if he
mien yet breast many a storm uninjured. He approached Mr Grant with
6 :

THE LOST LAIRD.

a friendly salutation in Gaelic, offering atthe same time his broad tanaoa
hand, which was cọrdially accepted.

‘We are come, Ewen,’ said Mr Grant, ‘to speak with you on some
matters connected with your past history ; ; but I have no doubt: your
memory will serve easily to recall them.’

‘You are welcome, Mr Grant,’ answered Cameron, ‘to any information F
can give; and you and I have known each other too long not to know what
bounds there are to confidence between us.’ ;

As he spoke. there was a quick glance tewards Kenneth, which was in
a moment averted; and he pressed the travellers to accept some refresh-
ments in the bothie he had uear at hand. ‘Two or three gillies now made
their appearance, to whose care Cameron committed his guests’ ponies, and
then led them along a narrow path, which seemed to run into the very
depths of the mountain. It turned suddenly round a huge boulder-stoue,
which served as a door to a smail ravine, screened at the farther end by
thickets of’ alder, birch, and holly, and enclosing a Knoll of the softest
verdure, on which stood a substantial mountain dairy. Some milch-cows
were grazing near it, and the sound of falling waters was heard betore they
themselves appeared in sight, throwing upwards a shower of foam from
the chasm which divided this fairy g lon frum the opposite heights. The
greater part of it was cast into shadow by the overhanging portion of the
mountain ; but the sunlight fell full on the wooded bank on the other side
of the torrent, and on the masses of blood-reg granite which rose above it,
affording here and there a footing to some fantastic pine, whose roots
scarcely clung to the soil. <A t: able was already spread with abundance of
Highland cheer near the bothie, and Cameron’s daughters, two rosy-cheeked
lasses in holiday attire, waited on the guests.

After a little preliminary conversation, Mr Grant turned to the subject
of his chief interest; but they found Ewen slow to speak of the events
connected with the rising of 45. He continued to look from time to tite
towards Kenneth with evident curiosity, but refrained from asking any
direct question concerning him.

‘One object of our expedition,’ observed Mr Grant, ‘has been to shew
our young friend the scenery of these mountains; for he has lived abroad
nearly all his life, and it is all new to him.’

‘He had best take a good walk with one of my long-legged boys,’ replied
Cameron, with a slight expression of incredulity.

‘There is nothing I should like better!’ exclaimed Kenneth eagerly.

‘This place recalls a thousand confused recollections of my journey when a
child; through a wild country of heath and wood. I could almost think I
knew a cave somewhere along this track, where I slept upon a cloak
thrown over the heather, and watched the morning light glimmering
through a hole in the roof.’

' Eh, sirs!’ exclaimed one of the girls, ‘that must have been our first
place here !? '

‘Peace, Effie!’ said her father. ‘Are you not ashamed of speaking
before strangers when none spoke to you?’ He fixed his eye more
earnestly on Kenneth, and continued—‘ It must have been an unusual bev:
to you, sir, or you would not have remembered it so woll. Should, you
recollect the names of any who were with you then?’ i

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

t »
‘
aan
h

EG No, replied Kenneth: ‘with one exception, I remember none.’
* And that one was?’
«Janet Maxwell,’ he answered.

‘A glow of satisfaction lighted up Ewen’s features 4 the wardat ; but
shewing only slight emotion, he rose from the table, and withdrew into the
bothie, from whence he speedily returned, with his blue bonnet drawn over
his brow, his plaid adjusted in a peculiar manner round him, and his whole
appearance altered by the Highland dress he had assumed. Kenneth
started to his feet as he approached.

t You were one who sheltered me then!’ he cried; ‘and it was not by
your present name 1 knew you.’’ Ile put his hand across his eyes.
‘Smith,’ he thought; ‘an English name, not likely; yet I cannot be
mistaken.’

‘James Smith,’ he said aloud; and Cameron lifted his bonnet from his
head, and took Kenneth’s hand in both of his, with such reverence as he
might have shewn ġo a native prince, saying— You are the son of Morrison
‘of Dalcairdie. I almost knew it from the time I saw you come up the

' strath ; but I know it now by this token, that Smith was the name | was
known by when I lived upon your father’s lands, a peaceful man, with wite
and bairng about me.’

‘You have given the proof we wanted,’ said Mr Grant, with some
huskiness in his voice, but in his most deliberate manner, ‘ of Kenneth
Morrison’s claim to his fathags property. Once more he owes you a great
debt ; but not so great a one, Kenneth, he continued, ‘as you have already

. owed. That man gave up all that was wealth to him, for your father’s
sake: he could not save his life; but as he was dragged 9 bleeding corpse
past his door, he saved his body from farther insult, and thus at least gained
for it Christian burial.’

Kenneth covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud.

t Let the past alone, Grant,’ said Mr Lindsay: ‘we have long known all
these things ; but they press overhard upon him.’

‘Nay,’ said Kenneth, looking up: ‘I thank you rather for recalling it !
Such a scene as you have described, though it makes me feel still more
deeply the sacredness of my claim, takes so much of the brightness from
the world, that the path before me scems higher and less selfish than it has

ex done, If wealth arid influence become mine, they shall be used for the
welfare of all who have suffered in my father’s cause; and first,’ he added,
‘grasping Cameron’s hand, ‘I will endeavour to shew my gratitude to you.”

‘Speak not of it, Dalcairdie !’ said the old man. ‘My time on earth will

~ have been long cnough when I see you in your father’s house, and think
that I helped to save you for that day.’

s We ought now,’ said Mr Grant, ‘to lose no time in proceeding on our
Fen for much Jies before us that should be done before to-morrow
‘night.’

a Tt not let you go down the mountain alone,’ said Cameron. < My son
shall accompany the young laird’

‘Not sol’ interrupted Mr Grant: ‘the less observation we attract the

.. better, and Donald knows the road as well as themselves.’

‘4G, then,” said Cameron; ‘it may be you will not have been wholly

gip motea for T |

THE LOST LATED.

In a few minutes more the ravine and. its inhabitants, whe’ had received
with unbounded joy Cameron's news, were left behind, and the long tract
of moor and fell stretched again before our travellers. In the course of the
evening they reached a lonely farmhouse, where they rested for the night;
and there they heard that some fears had been excited by the rise of the
‘mountain-streams, and other appearances, which betokened an approaching
flood. It was not, however, considered to be near at hand, and the alarm
had only just arisen; so that although the little party determined on press-
ing forward as quickly as possible the following day, they had no fear of
not arriving in safety at their destination. What that might be, Kenneth
of course suspected; but as his friends did not explain the route they were
taking, he resolved to ask no questions concerning their future movements.
There was a thick mist over the face of the whole country when they again
set forward; heavy masses of vapour seemed hurrying from the coast
towards the inland mountain-ranges; aud though, as the morning wore on,
the sun now and then gleamed out upon the nearer rocks that bounded
their road, or revealed the recesses uf some deep birchen glade, it was soon
curtained again, and a strange reddish light was spread over the landscape.
Through mist and sunshine, passing doubt and exulting anticipation, one
sweet face smiled on Kenneth as he drew near his father’s home: those
earnest, trustful eyes of Marion’s seemed to give him assurance that truth
would prevail in his cause ; the music of her voice blended with all the sounds
of nature around him; and he felt as if he war passing over enchanted ground.
His fricuds, when the rugged path they were pursuing permitted them to
ride abreast, appeared engrossed by their own conversation; and although
it was occasionally rendered more difficult by the rise of the mountain-
streams which crossed it, and obliged them to choose higher and more
‘circuitous ways, they went on a considerable distance without meeting any
decided check to their farther progress. They had halted at about twelve
o'clock, to partake of the provisions with which their servants had been
provided by Cameron, when Kenneth’s attention was arrested by a low,
distant sound, resembling the confused hum of a multitude coming towards
them from the other side of the hil. He observed almost at the same
instant that Donald stole quietly away; and as the rest of the party
remained unconcerned, he speedily followed his example, under the pretext
of examining a curious group of stones at some little distance; and after
a quarter of an hour's active climbing, he gained a point from which he
looked down on the strath into which they were about to descend.
Wild and terrible was the scene which lay before him: for onwards, from
the north, came the waters which had collected in the Grampian chain,
overflowing the rivers fed by those tributary streams, which rise in its
hollows, till they now rushed with resistless violence along the valleys;
breaking through every embankment, filling up the course of every wintry
torrent, and bearing desolation on their way. Below him spread a fertile -
tract of pasture-ground, which ran up into many defiles formed by the
spurs of the mountains, somewhere in whose neighbouring recesses he knew
that Dalcairdie lay embosomed. Ile could see through the rain, which now.
began to descend in sheets, summer bothies swep; away from. the hill-side,
and cattle struggling with the water. -Above every other sound rose at
intervals the loud cry of human anguish and fear; for close ee i

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

nestled down under a firwood which skirted the base of the height on
which he stood, lay a small hamlet, two or three houses of which: were
séparated from the rest by a stream, which now rushed past it swollen to a
mighty torrent. Had Kenneth followed his first impulse, on beholding
this unexpected scene, he would have made all speed to guin the valley, and
to give what help he might to its bewildered inhabitants; but remembering
the unprotected situation in which he had left his friends, he determined
to return first to them, and to see what shelter could be found from the
storm, which was every moment increasing in violence. On regaining the
group of stunted oak-trees under which he had left them, he saw them at
some distance close to a cottage they had passed on their way: he rapidly
explained the scene to which he had been a witness, and begged they would
remain in the cabin, while he himself returned to the hamlet. To this they
unwillingly agreed, and in another minute he was on his way back.

By the time Kenneth had reached the valley, the danger on all sides
had frightfully increased: the river was every moment widening its banka,
and had already borne away several cottages, and threatened the rest.
The feelings of all were wonnd up to the highest pitch; but there was a
steadfastness of purpose, and a calmness in the energy with which the
people worked in removing their goods, and in assisting the oldest and
weakest to escape from the most exposed parts of the valley, which told
impressively in their favour. Kenneth's eager help was first givən to a
poor woman whose little habitation was already undermined ; her children
were safe on a ledge of rock above it; but just as the roof fell in, he helped
her to drag from it a chest containing all the Sabbath clothes of the family;
and then he lent his well-nerved arm to an old man, who had been in vain
attempting to move it. And when both were placed beyond the reach of
the waters, he was just turning towards another group, when a rumbling
noise on the opposite side of the channel made all pause at their work : the
mist was still so thick that objects at a short distance could only be imper-
fectly seen, but the old grandfather guessed at once what calamity had
taken place. ,

‘There it is at last!’ he cried: ‘mony and mony’s the time I have said
that bonny homestead stood on slippery ground! The spring’ behind it
was aye rushing strong when the burn was full, and the crack in the rock
was widening; but Elspeth wad tak nae heed to my warning; and to say
truth, I had e’en forgot it mysel the day. Archie! Willie!—a’ of ye!
ye maun just go and help the wee auld bodie; for she'll run a puir chance
if she has nae present deliverance.’

‘Ay,’ answered one of the young men thus addressed; ‘but wha is to
cross the water? Wi’ sic a whirl and a skirling, what boat wad escape
being broken to pieces in a minute? Naething human could swiin against
the tide, and the brig is a guid four miles off.’ r

‘Not cross the water!’ screamed Menie, the woman Kenneth had been
helping, who now ran distractedly towards them. ‘Is it my ain blood I hear
saying that? I tell you Miss Gertrude Morrison. is in that place yo are
looking on, that is just doomed to fa’ to destruction! Robin met her this
morning on. her black pony going to old Elspeth: she wad:fain have had

4

her to go up to the big house long ago, and now she is there keeping her

‘+ Tine wi’ death before her!’

20

THE LOST LAIRD.’

‘Alas, the puir young leddy! l replied Archie sorrowfully, ‘ that the like
of her should perish l’

‘She shall not perish!’ cried Kenneth impetuously : ‘tell me, is Dal-
cairdie so near?’

‘On the other side o’ the hill yonder,’ said Archie.

In a moment Kenneth had sprung to the point exactly opposite the falling
hut, which he could now plainly sec; for a sudden gust of wind, which
had swollen the river with fresh spoils, had also raised the curtain of mist,
and he perceived the full extent of the catastrophe. ‘The dwelling had
slipped, with a portion of rock to which its walls still adhered, down to the
very edge of the river: behind it foamed a waterfall—in front was a mass
of ruins; and to these clung a young woman dressed in black, supporting
a crouching figure, so small «s to appear almost that of a dwarf. As he
stood gazing horror-struck on the sight, for ey help seemed vain, he
heard a voice close to him, in a whisper of ag ‘There—there, did you
say? my daughter!’ He tur ned, and saw an old man whom he had seen
approach on horseback from the northern extremity of the fir wood stand-
ing by his side, with such ar expression of terror in his face, of unutter-
able anguish, as he had never before imagined. He knew in a moment
that it was Mr Morrison of Dalcairdie. His ready wit had already suggested
the only possible means of escape; for within these few moments more
than one desperate attempt had already been made to cross the river; and
he saw the boat, which with great difficulty had been launched, whirled
round like a nutshell, and broken against ihe huge fragments of stone
which had been swailowed np by the waters. Mr Morrison (for he it was)
seemed to catch a ray of hope from Kenneth's steady eye and dauntless
bearing. ‘Save her!’ he cried; ‘you are young and bold! What !—do
you hesitate ? Life—ay, more than a thousand lives, depends upon you!’

‘There is a chance,’ said Kenneth; ‘a poor one, it may be, but the only
one. IfI perish, few will grieve for me.’

‘I tell you,’ exclaimed the old man, ‘we now yonr errand! It was but
this morning we heard of it; and it: did not keep her from venturing here
to persuade “that old woman to leave her miserable hut for a place of safety.
If my daughter is drowned before my cyes, what will this world be to me?
Save her, and take all we have!’

An instant before, Kenneth’s soul had been all on fire to attempt a
rescue, though he died in the venture. He now drew back with a glance
of scorn; but the cvil feeling was instantly suppressed, and without onc
word to tell the strife that rose within his breast, he called on Archie
to help him io effect his object. His cyc was fixed on a huge pine-tree
which had been uprooted at some distance, and was now borne onwards
by the current; its branching head, he trusted, might be caught in the
mass of rubbich collected round the fallen cottage, and thus it might
form something of a raft over part at least of the river. He was not
disappointed; and the moment he saw its progress arrested, he leaped
into the tide. For one instant he disappeared under the boiling waters—
in another he had clung to the roots of the tree, and raised himself upon it;
slowly, half-swimming, half-supporting himself by its stem—now thrown’
back by the violence of the currents, now again able to give directions to
Archie and Donald, he first secured the rope they threw to him, to the

p Ro

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

tree, and, then succeeded. in reaching the opposite shore. Gertrude,
meanwhile; had roused her companion from her stupor, and placed her
among the branches, which afforded a scarcely less solid footing than the
crumbling heap on which she had lately stood; and now, as Kenneth
approached her, he heard her entreating that the aged woman should be
taken over first. The force of the waters threatened every minute to
dislodge the head of the pine from its restingplace; Kenneth obeyed her,
therefore, and succeeded in placing poor Elspeth’s light weight in the
stalwart arms of Donald, who had followed him by means of the rope.

‘Let me go on, sir!’ said the brave fellow: ‘you have done enough ; and
we'll band over the puir old body to Archie Bean.’

‘I have not done my work !’ answered Kenneth. ‘Keep the woman's
head above water, and do not let her catch hold of you, and vou will
carry her safely.’ He was already on his way back, but it was a more
difficult task to afford equal assistance to Gertrude. ‘Trust yourself to
the rope, he said, as he again approached her: ‘it is your hest chance ;
and do not fear, even if you lose hold of the tree; there are those at hand
who would die to save you.’

‘I trust myself to Heaven and to you!’ answered Gertrude; and she
resolutely withdrew her arms from the branch to which she had been
clinging: keeping hold of the rope which Kenneth fastened round her
waist. It was drawn by strong hands and loving hearts from the shore:
but he upheld her; he spoke a word of hope and of faith as life seemed
departing; he raised her head; and when a tremendous rush, as of a fresh
cataract, poured over them, with one arm he held on to the pine-tree,
with the other he grasped her firmly. And when it passed, and the huge
trunk floated on, Kenneth, with a last effort, had reached the shore, and
Gertrude was restured to her father. He did not see it, for he had fainted.

The morning light was streaming through the half-open curtains in a
pleasant room at Dalcairdie when Kenneth again woke to consciousness.
How he had come there, whether hours or weeks had passed since the
events which he now slowly and dimly remembered, he knew not, nor
much cared to comprehend: his first feclings were the pleasant ones of
returning health, clouded over by such langour as made it almost too
great an effort to consider the probabilities of his situation. The silence
around him was broken only by sounds that seemed rather to increase
than to disturb the exceeding quiet; such as the singing of birds in the
boughs, whose flickering shadows against the wall he had been watching
for two or three minutes; the ticking of a watch near his bed; and the
turning of the leaves of a book. He drew aside the curtain with unsteady
hand, and saw Mr Morrison reading by the fireside in his dressing-gown
and slippers: his worn and furrowed face expressed anxiety indeed, but

yet more of patient determination; his forehead was high and narrow,
his ‘lips thin and closely compressed. But it was not a countenance to
Jook upon with dislike; and there was a mournful softness in it, as he
now laid down his volume, and came to Kenneth's bedside. He gently
laid back his head upon the pillow, and took his hand to count his pulse.

‘Js she safe, sir?’ asked the invalid. ‘The water was icy cold !’

P e were in it longer than my daughter,’ replied Mr Morrison, gazing

THE LOST LAIRD,

into his face, and speaking slowly and distinctly, as if to ascertain whether
Kenneth understood him. ‘She is well, and longs to express her thanks
to you; but we must keep you quiet at present, and not talk of all you
have done for us.’

“One word more!’ said Kenneth eagerly. ‘This house—is it yours ?’

‘Yes,’ replied Mr Morrison; ‘you are at Dalcairdie., Where else
should the preserver of my only child have been brought ?’

. Kenneth turned away his head; but no longer for sleep. In a few
minutes more Mr Lindsay stood by his side with overflowing eyes, and
broken exclamations of thankfulness and joy.

‘Come,’ said Mr Morrison, ‘we shall be bad nurses now; we must call
Gertrude to our help.’

‘I am here, father,’ said a iow sweet voice, which had made the music
of Kenneth’s long dreams; and he took the refreshing draught which
she held to his lips with a strange feeling that he had done the same thing
often before. ‘You are our prisoner, Mr Kenneth, said Gertrude, ‘and
if I give you liberty of speech, you must give me your parole not to use
it longer than I approve of.’

‘You have aright to dictate to me,’ replied Kenneth, smiling faintly.
‘I have only a few questions to ask—-How I came here without any
knowledge of mine ?—how long I have been in this strange state of forget-
fulness ?’

‘You were stunned by a blow you received in the river,’ she answered
quietly. ‘You have been im great danger; but now it is over; and all
you require is perfect quict for a few days to restore you to health.’

‘And then, my dear boy,’ coutinucd Mr Lindsay, ‘ we will talk of busi-
ness : not before remember-—not before.’

A flush passed over Gertrude’s pale cheek at the words. Kenneth
perceived it, for she was just arranging his pillows with the readiness
of an experienced nurse. And he, too, felt the painfulness of the silence
which followed; but his head was so confused, that he knew not how to
break it, i

‘Dr Selwyn will soon be here,’ said Mr Morrison, looking at his watch:
‘he only left us for a couple of hours.’ And at the same moment the
person named entered the room, and advancing to Kenneth’s bedside, soon
made himself thoroughly acquainted with the state of the case. He was
a striking-looking man, in the prime of life, with a keen, dark eye that
seemed at once to see what he had to do, and a manner which inspired
perfect confidence in his judgment—-two most important points in the pro-
fessional carcer he had so successfully pursued. He decided that Gertrude’s
recommendation of silence and quict should first be enforced; but he
thought so well of the change which had taken place in his patient’s con-
dition, that he essured him his confinement to his room would be of very
short duration. ‘I may safely leave you,’ ho said, ‘under Miss Morrison’s
care: if I could secare any like it for all my invalids, they would require
much less of.mine ; you may be sure there is nothing I can do now that
can compare with it.' And so Gertrude, with the assistance of an elderly
servant called Judith, who was as anxious as the rest of the family about
the young stranger, continued her attendance upon him; and her manner
was so sisterly, and there was such an air of repose about her, that it

2

CUAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

seemed to,impart quiet'to his own nerves to feel her near him. He found
that Mr«Grant had been suddenly called away the very day after the acci-
dent which had so nearly proved fatal to him, by an account of his sister's
dangerous illness; and as Gertrude told him this, he asked eagerly
whether Miss Grant had written to her before it came on. Á

‘Yes,’ answered Gertrude, raising her soft expressive eyes to his; ‘she
told me of your visit to Dunkeld, and of her suspicions regarding your
atrival in this neighbourhood. I wish I could think that her anxiety
regarding this very letter had had nothing to do with her present state.’

_ ‘Then you expected me?’ said Kenneth, raising himself on his pillow.
“Yes, I remember now: you knew that I was coming to claim for myself
all you care for most. What a contemptible opinion your father must
have formed of me, as I stood by his side on the river-bank, when he
offered to give up all for your sake !’

‘No, indeed,’ said Gertrude soothingly. ‘You do us injustice: what-
ever your claim may be, neither my father nor myself would desir2
otherwise than that the most impartial examination should be made of it.
‘What is past cannot be recalled; but the future, I trust and believe, lies
bright and clear before you. Only let health and strength return before we
talk over these things, and all will be well.’

From that moment the subject was never brought forward by any one
near him. le slept and woke in his own old home, the place he had
learned to look upon with veneration—to possess which was the. object
of his most ardent hope; and he recognised nothing, he knew nothing of
it, beyond the two rooms in which he lived; and the restraint, as he found
himself able to move from one to the other, became unbearable. Mr
Morrison’s manner was cold and courteous, with an occasional gleam of
warmer feeling; Gertrude’s was ever kind and composed: and,as Kenneth
drew her into conversation, and learned something more of her past history
than Marion Lindsay had told him, he fully appreciated the high and
solid principle, the unselfish care for the good of others, and the well-
ditected exertion, which had won such love and reverence alike from her
friends and her dependents. Ie saw that tu her, life was simply a path of
trial, though brightened, indeed, by the gladness she diffused around her,
and by the hope that lay calm and full within her; and he thought how
many in her circumstances, with little to amuse her fancy and to excite her
intellect, and with evidently failing health, would have sunk into indolence
and apathy. Was he come, then, to darken that path ?—to drive her
father and herself: forth from their home ?—to break up all the work she
was so wisely doing? He recoiled in bitterness of spirit from the picture,
and felt as if the confidence which all Gertrude’s conduct towards him
expressed, added to his self-accusations. Yet how tell her anything of
this, while, so far as her father was concerned, any right he had to the
estate depended solely on a promise made in the agony of despair, and
which he-earnestly wished might be for ever forgotten ?

Dr Selwyn meanwhile brought occasional tidings of the world without.
The floods had done terrible mischief through the neighbouring straths ;
but they had now abated, and no lives had been lost; even poor old
Elspeth had. recovered her terror and her dangers, and only regretted that

Mer cottage could not be rebuilt on its former site. A week had elapsed
a

THE LOST LAIRD.

since Kenneth had become an inmate of Dalcairdie; and from the morning
on which he regained his consciousness, his host appeared indefatigable
in making arrangements for the comfort and renewed prosperity of his
dependents. What conversation passed in his room bore entirely on this
subject; but he was constantly interested by the manner in which Dr
Sclwyn brought forward Gertrude’s views— often expanding them, now
and then slightly differing from her opinion, yet always proving very
clearly that he remembered all she had ever thought, and Knew exactly
what she was most likely to wish for. There was a brightness and
buoyancy in his’ spirits, that seemed to bring an atmosphere of health
where he came: no wonder that she felt its influence, and smiled almost
gaily under it; but her cheerfulness, young as she still was, no more
resembled that which Marion Lindsay shed over her home, than the soft,
mild light of an autumn day does that, which dances over the earth in May.

‘Dr Selwyn,’ said Gertrude one evening, as she sat working, € was
with us through our greatest trials: he attended my brother through his
last illness, and did much to comfort my father; he is so firm and deter-
mined where firmness is required, that one can always lean upon his
opinion; and so kind’—--—‘ that one must love him’ seemed to hover upon
her lips; but she bent her head over her work, and while a feeling of
great relief passed over Kenncth’s mind, they both remained silent. She
might have -told more of her reasous for feeling happy in Dr Selwyn’s
society, had she been as unreserved as Marion; but she left him to learn
by slow degrees how great a share his high religious principles, united
with his acknowledged talents, had had in raising her father’s hope and
aim in life from the objects of mere worldly ambition to those a Christian
may rejoice to live for, even through sorrow or poverty.

On the fourth day of his convalescence, Kenueth could endure this quiet
state of things no longer.

‘T must breathe the fresh air again,’ he said to Mr Lindsay ; ‘the weight
of this silence oppresses me like the stillness of death itself!’ ‘

‘I should have thought,’ said Mr Morrison in answer, ‘that the view
from these windows might in itself have becn interesting enough for your
present amusement.’

‘No,’ replied Kenneth with feverish impatience ; ‘there is no charm of
old acquaintanceship in it.’

‘I will not affect to misunderstand you,’ he replied in his low distinct
tones; ‘you wish to sce more of Dalcairdie: there is no reasonable objec -
tion now, I think, to your being gratified. Gertrude shall drive you in her
pony carriage, and Mr Lindsay and I wil! accompany you.’

‘Such an afternoon as this,’ said Gertrude, ‘might well tempt us all out,
with no other inducement than its own beauty.’

‘There is no need for hurry, my love,’ said her father, glancing anxiously
towards her as she ieft the room to prepare for her drive; but in a very
few minutes she was ready, and Kenneth, leaning on Mr Morrison’s arm,.
slowly descended the great staircase. All was different from the faint
recollections ‘he had cherished. He crossed a large hall with a few fine
pieces of statuary ranged on the marble floor, and some flowering shrubs
in the tall windows; the flood of mellow sunshine streamed upon them
through the columns of a stately portico; and before him lay a beautiful

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

parklike scene. Was this indeed Dalcairdie? Mr Morrison observed his
bewildered look with a smile, but offered no comment upon it, as they
joined Gertrude, who was already. seated in her low garden-chair. There
was no hurry in her manner; her face was paler and graver than wsual,

but her large lustrous eyes were lighted up as from the very depths of her
soul; and when she spoke, there was a tone of excitement in her low,
musical voice, which again she seemed to master by the mere force of her
will, The sleek white pony stepped soberly along through a beautiful
plantation, which skirted the base of the hill at the foot of which the
mansion stood. Beyond it were groups of stately trees, beneath which the
cattle lay grouped in the lazy enjoyment of the golden afternoon.

_ * My father,’ said Gertrude, ‘has employed many years in making alte-
rations in this place: the old Hall has assumed a Grecian exterior; indeed,
so much has been added along the front of the building, that none could
recognise it.’

‘You have made an English park,’ said Kenneth, ‘of a Highland tract
of moor and wood.’

. ‘Do you, then, remember so well what it used to be?’ asked Mr
Morrison.

‘No,’ replied Kenneth with some emotion; ‘I remember nothing here.’

‘J must take you out of the drive,’ said Gertrude, ‘to shew you my
favourite spot. Do you feel equal to walking with me some way along
that path we just sec, opening now to the left? 1 perceive Dr Selwyn
coming towards us ; he will give you his arm if you find a scrambling
walk too much for you.’

‘Indeed,’ answered Kenneth gaily, ‘you do injustice to your own care:
there is nothing 1 sluuld enjoy half so much as a ramble along the hill-
gide with you.’

Here Mr Lindsay called to him to point out the peculiar beauty
of some English cows; and as Kenneth handed Gertrude from the
carriage, and then joined Mr Morrison and himself, they walked back a
little way to see them to greater advantage, and Gertrude went on quickly
to meet Dr Selw; ya. Their conversation did not reach Kenneth’s ear; but
when he shook hands with the latter, he observed that it had warmly
interested his companion; aud now, as she led the way along the stcep
winding path, his step grew firmer, aud the youthful elasticity of his frame
returned with every breath he drew. They soon again descended the
spur of the hill on the other side, and came to a nook, altogether unlike
any portion he had yet seen of Dalcairdie. It was a small dingle traversed
by a wountain-stream, which formed a deep clear pool at the foot of a
group of old beech-trees. There was a ledge of gray rock opposite, over-
hung by a rowan thicket, and garlanded with wild flowers, which, with
every autumn tint upon the foliage, were reflected in the water ; but its
chief charm lay in its air of perfect wildness and seclusion.

‘We have outstripped Mr Lindsay and my father,’ said Gertrude, ‘but
I was impatient to bring you to my own favourite haunt: is it not a fit
place to sit down and dream in?’

‘So fit a place,’ answered Kenneth slowly, ‘that a dream seems to hover
round me already—a strangely vivid one.’ He paused; and the glow that

exercise had brought over his cheek faded to a-hue of ashy whiteness.
26

THE LOST LAIRD.

His eye was fixed on the opposite bank, but his lips were firmly closed,
and Gertrude’s countenance expressed the deepest anxiety. ‘She sat down
by his side on a fragment of rock, and laid her hand gently on his, and
the very touch had a calming influence.

‘Speak to me!" she said. ‘Think of us as your friends; of me ag of
one who owes life to you, and whom you have saved wellnigh by the
sacrifice of your own: tell me what this vision is which affects you so
strongly ?’

Mr Lindsay and Mr Morrison stood near them with Dr Selwyn; but
Kenneth was utterly unconscious of their presence as he rose, and point-
ing to the gray rock jutting out of the copsewood, auswered—‘ They stood
there—-two men—for a moment, and a rout of soldiers followed them:
yonder was the way they went; and then all was still, and I was left alone
with Janet by the bonnie burnie dub.’

“He has told it! shrieked a voice from the thicket as wild and shrill as
the cry of a sea-bird.

Kenneth started iu amazement; for in another momeut there, where his
memory had conjured up the apparition of the fugitives, stood a group of
three persons—Mr Grant, Cameron, and Janet Maxwell; the last throw-
ing her shrivelled arms over her head ina fit of uncontrollable excitement.
They had just stepped out of the tangled copse, where, in the deep silence
that reigned around, they had been ucar cnough to hear every word that
had been spoken. Mr Lindsay grasped Kenneth's hand, and shook it
violently. Mr Morrison's manner, as be laid Ins hand upon Gertrude’s
arm, had'the quiet and decision of a resolution that had long been taken.
‘Kenneth Morrison,’ he said, ‘you have been brought into a well-laid
snare; but, before the witnesses whom we havc here assembled, I pronounce
that the test my daughter proposed has fully succeeded, and that your
claim is good, and your right to all your father held unimpeachable. And
now, my fricnds, let us welcome home the long-lost laud!’ As he spoke,
he took Kenneth’s hand in both of his, and his example was rapidly fol-
lowed by Mr Grant and Ewen Cameron; but none shook it more cordially
ihan Dr Selwyn, whose joy on the occasion seemed utterly incompatible
with the interest he usually evinced in all that concerned Gertrude.

‘i tauld you how it was ordered,’ whispered Janet, as she crept close up
to Kenneth’s car. ‘The bonnie Snowdrop of Kincaldrum shall bloom at
Daleairdie yet l

Kenneth could have hugged the old woman on the spot; but turning
from her with a few hearty words of greeting, he said to Mr Morrison—‘ I
had no distinct recollection of this place, nor had I ever linked the story
of Prince Charles with its peculiar features: you know that I remembered
rothing in your lLouse—how is it that all are so suddenly satisfied with my
imperfect evidence ?’ 3

‘Not imperfect,’ said Mr Morrison. ‘Gertrude and Dr Selwyn arranged
a plan whereby every difficulty was to be removed; and I must say that,
although it was somewhat too theatrical for my taste, I think it could not
have been better, judging from the results.’

‘We are all satisfied,’ said Mr Grant. ‘I conside* the chain of evidence
perfect in every part.’

‘Evidence!’ cried Janet, breaking in upon the luwyer’s argument : ‘ is

CITAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

that the name ye ca’ what gives Kenneth Morrison a right till his ain?

Ye have a’ known what I tauld ye. Mr Lindsay, and the doctor, and a’,
ken weel that’ he ca’d it the bonnie burnie dub when he wasa wee bit bairn
by my side; and so he has, named it now in the broad sunshine, as I prayed
and believed he wad.’

‘Gently, my good woman,’ resumed Mr Grant; ‘that is precisely what
I was going to say. Your account, coupled with: your kinsman Cameron's
and with Lady Lucan’s, left little ground for legal objection; but to
remove any feeling on Kenneth’s part that a promise made in a father’s
bitterest sorrow formed the motive of Mr Morrison’s very handsome con-
duct, Miss Morrison herself sent for old Janet, and devised from her story
such a test as all parties might consider final.’

‘Let me, then, now congratulate the Laird of Dalcairdie on his restora-
tion to his family honours, and wish him, with all my heart, long life and
happiness !’

As Gertrude spoke, Kenneth raised the soft white hand she gave him to
his lips; but Mr Lindsay cried out, t Her cheek, man !—her cheek! You
forget you are cousins!’ And acting on the words, he kissed her as he
would have done a beloved elder sister.

‘All that I have hitherto lived for,’ he said, ‘is now attained. Your
father and yourself have done far more for this place and its people than
any one cise could have done through the years of my boyhood. If Janet
had never framed her plan of concealment, no better arrangements could
have been made for my welfare than have been carried into effect; and now,
if you will once more receive me for a few days as your guest, you shall
sce that I am not ungrateful.’

And the whole party returned to the Iall, of which Kenneth was now
undisputed master, with feclings more easily imagined than described. His
were sobered in their first passionate rush by the earnestness of his purpose
to secure (xertrude and her father from whatever pain it might be in his
power to spare them: he had wonderfully recovered his strength during
the last half hour, and now he seemed to drink in health and elasticity of
spirit with every breath of his native air. As the long lines of the house
came again in sight, Mr Morrison pointed out to him the older portion of
the building, which rose in a heavy but not unpicturesque mass behind
them: the richest ivy mantled round the high chimneys and over the
turrets, which were once the pride of the country-side; and the group of
stately cedars which he remembered, threw their dark shadows along the
Grecian colonnade: it was a strange harmony of the past and the present.

‘Little, indeed,’ said Kenneth, ‘of all this wealth and beauty belonged
to my father: nor can I consider myself for a moment entitled to any part
of what is most justly yours.’

, ‘No,’ replied Mr Morrison, with a smile of peculiar ‘meaning playing
over his thiu expressive features ; ‘I do not intend to burthen your young
and generous spirit with a sense of obligations you cannot repiiy—we will
leave our good friends, Grant and Kincaldrum, to settle what is yours and
what is mine; but as we become better acquainted, you shall learn the
reasons which induced me to lay out large sums of money on this estate,
and to build so extensively that, in fact, the house in which you were born

# e * . `
is now scarcely inhabited: we are, indeed, become few to live here.’
28

THE LOST LAIRD.

That evening, which all principally interested in the events of the day
seemed equally anxious should draw to a close, was ended by prayers read
by Mr Morrison, according to the form of the Episcopalian Church, in the
oratory or small chapel attached to the house.: It was a short but most
solemn service; and though many eager, and not a few reproachful glances
were directed towards Kenneth, when first he entered and took his place
with the rest of the family, there were none that did not sink reverently
before Mr Morrison’s clear eye and noble manner, when, prayers being
over, he in few and simple words introduced him to his household as the
Laird of Dalcairdie.

‘Not willingly have I done this wrong,’ he said, ‘in keeping back the
inheritance of the orphan; and yet, God knows! most joyfully do I now
restore it fourfold. A kind and open-handed master I am sure I shall
leave in my place; but those who wish it may follow my daughter and
myself to the Grange, where we intend soon to take up our abode.’

There was a fervent ‘Amen,’ as Mr Morrison ended, from Janet, who
bat in one corner, half-hidder by a pillar from sight, with her glittering
eyes fixed npon Kenneth, and her whole soul apparently absorbed in the
fecling of his presence. Thereupon ensued a startled look among the
servants, and a half-suppressed movement towards the door, as if some
supernatural sight had been expected: but nothing more awful followed
than that Ewen Cameron, who had been standing by Janet, stepped
respectfully forwards, and addressing Mr Morrison, he said—‘If I might
speak in sic a solemn place, I also would fain say one word, and ask pardon
from you, sir, whom I have hated many is the year with a sure hatred;
and for an unchristian act, 1 fear me now, that T have done’

‘Speak boldly, my friend,’ replied Mr Morrison; ‘a faithfui servant such
as you have been shall neyer want honour from me. So far as 1 know, we
have not met before this day, unless, indeed, it has been im the dark, and
under circuinstances which a brave man should never have placed himself
in, J would rather,’ continued he with a tone of authority, ‘ that our con-,
versation should be in private.’

‘As you please, sir,’ answered Ewen carelessly ; ‘but I would have you
remember that I was the laird’s foster-brother, and not his servant, and that
the honour of a gentleman may sometimes consist with skulking in times
like those that are past.’

‘We will not prolong the subject, replied Mr Morrison, still standing
near the lectern at which he had read. ‘This is not an hour or a place
suited to it; bui to-morrow, in the laird's study, we will enter into it as
fully as you please, and in the meantime most cordially do I give any
pardon you may think it needful to ask.’ So saying, Mr Morrison slightly
inclined his head to the assembled houschold; and with many blank looks
of disappointment they slowly withdrew without another word being
spoken, excepting a tow mutter from Janet, to the effect that a Southron
could no more change his nature than a leopard his spots.

As they left the oratory, Gertrude said to Kenneth, with a degree of
bashfulness that added to the softness of her mamner, in itsclf always B0
composed and dignified —‘I cannot yet give up my charge of you, and raust
positively enjoin more rest upon you to-morrow than I imagine you will be
inclined to allow yourself, 1 shall be ready; howevcr, to walk with you if

29

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

you wish it early, and to shew you all that we have done during the years
we have lived here. We may find that your memory serves you even
better than you are now aware of.’

‘I am your guest, if no longer your prisoner,’ replied Kenneth gaily;
‘and could not wish for greater pleasure than to obey your commands.’

‘ Always adhere to those words, my dear fellow,’ said Mr Grant to him
as they directly afterwards parted for the night at Kenneth’s door. ‘ Ger-
trude Morrison Jays her command upon us all to love her, and serve her
well, even without saying a word; and who should have better opportuni-
ties of knowing her worth than yourself? Come, come! a pleasanter
arrangement may be made yet than her betaking herself for the rest of her
life to the Grange, which is but a dull old place compared to this; though
her father, with his great English fortune, and his taste for Grecian archi-
tecture, may make it habitable for himself.’

‘She would do any man honour by becoming his wife,’ replied Kenneth
gravely. ‘Have you not observed that Dr Selwyn thinks so too?’

‘Whew! sits the wind in that quarter?’ answered the old lawyer,
shrugging his shoulders. ‘There is no accounting for a woman’s taste,
though she be the wisest of her sex; hut there may be a remedy.’

‘Pray; do not undertake to find one on my account,’ said Kenneth,
unable to suppress his amusement at the sudden destruction of Mr Grant’s
airy castle, and his evident annoyance thereat. ‘My own plan, so fur as J
have formed any, is to return aJmost immediately to France, for an inde-
finite time, so as to allow Mr Morrison and his daughter to arrange theirs
without the slightest interruption from my presence.’

‘ And leave Kincaldrum and mysglf to look after your interests? Well,
you will not be so far wrong in that respect, for you are over-young to care
much for them yourself.’

That night Kenneth wandered in dreams with Marion Lindsay through
the woods and by the burn at Dalcairdic; and when he woke, and the
bright sunshine brought him back to the realities of life, they seemed
scarcely less delightful than his slecping fancies. He found the family at
breakfast when he left his apartment; and as soon as the meal was over
he reminded Gertrude of her promise. hey went out together, and she

„led the way round the cedars, through a wicket, which admitted them into

7?
i,

a garden, laid out in the formal Freuch taste, under the gray walls of the
old hall; and in a moment they had passed into so different a scene from
the one which by this time had become most familiar to Kenneth, that it
keemed scarcely possible so slight a boundary should have divided them
from it. There was, however, no air of desolation round them; the place
simply looked as if a spell had fallen upon it, in all its summer beauty,
twenty years before; and no mortal had trodden there since. The pears
were ripening round a low bay-window, which opened nearly to the ground,
amongst large clusters of red roses, and a profusion of trailing flowers fell
from the stone vases with which the terrace was adorned; the parterre
beneath was as gay as if fairy fingers had tended it; the sound of ‘the
golden bees’ was heard; and now and then the notes of birds from the
thick branches of the trees which spread over the low outer-wall. Even
the little Triton, who was blowing his conch-shell in the fountain in the

saa of the garden, threw a bright shower of water into the stilly air.

THE LOST LAIRD.

‘My mother’s garden!’ said Kenneth almost in a whisper. ‘ How
beautiful it is!

‘Yes,’ said Gertrude, ‘ we have cherished it for her sake. My sisters
and myself tried to keep every plant, and even to sow again every flower
we found here. It had all the charm of mystery to us, for wë scarcely
allowed any one to come here but ourselves; and as we grew older there
was a strange superstition attached to the place, which, while it determined
my father to close the old rooms by,degrces, because he feared its effect on
our spirits, only made us the fonder of this garden, where no ghost was
supposed to lurk, or at least not in the aaye

‘What appearance,’ asked Kenneth eagerly, ‘ was ever seen here?’

‘One,’ replied Gertrude, ‘which I i imagine will not be very long unex-
plained: it was that of a tall Highlander in the prohibited plaid, and full
accoutrements of the northern clans. There had been rumours more than
once among the servants of mysterious footsteps, and of a shadowy form,
which glided through rooms which were safely locked, and passages of
which every outlet was known; but we attended little to them till about
the time of the death of my eldest brother, when my father, sitting alone
Jate in the evening in that bay-windowed room, which is still called the
Laird’s Study, was startled by the appearance of an armed Highlander, who
suddenly stepped before him, with finger pointing in the direction of the
room in which our poor Edward lay, and in a whisper bid him seek for the
rightful heir of Dalcairdic. My father was the last man in the world to
believe in the superuatural character of his visitor; but although he
instantly rose, the tigure mauaged to elude his grasp, and, strange to say,
disappeared, as if it had sunk through the earth. From that time we have
seldom been disturbed, but the servants have more than once assured us
the place was haunted; ‘and certainly unaccountable noises have been heard,
which, echoing through the Jong-deserted rooms, have not been without
their effect upon our nerves.’

‘You remember Ewen Cameron's confession last night ?’ said Kenneth. :
‘My own conviction is, that during the years in which he was obliged to
seek safety in concealment, he found his knowledge of the intricacies of this
old dwelling his best chance of insuring it: you may depend upon it, he
was the mysterious personage who drove you from these apartmepts.’

‘I can scarcely say he did that,’ said Gertrude smiling sadly. ‘My father
found constant employment and amusement in building ; for a long time he
trusied that it was for his son; and then when that hope failed, he still
liked the work he had done himself hetter than that of his predecessors.
But my delight has always been here.’ She checked herself, as if she feared
to say too much of her love for the place she was so soon about to leave:
and at the same inoment the casement of the bay-window was thrown up,
and Mr Morrison and Cameron appeared at it. The story of the nocturnal
visitant had been told exactly as Kenneth had predicted it would be, bat
Gertrude and himself heard now with deeper interest than ever the tale of
the e escape of those fugitives whom Alexander Morrison had died to save.

‘Here,’ said Ewen Cameron, addressing them as they stood in the small
panelled room, lined with bookshelves, to which he had retired to write
his last letter— here js the passage by which, 1 make no doubt, the laird
led them forth to the fir-wood ; and by which I found my way easily mto

31

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

the house whenever I had a mind to get a quiet night's lodging.’ As he
spoke, he touched a spring, which instantly opened a trap-door, so artfully
contrived in the massive mouldings of the wall that no human being could
have discovered it. ‘There are many such hiding-places as this,’ he con-
tinued, ‘in the old houses in Scotland; 1 could tell you many 4 prank
that has been played among them you would scarcely believe ; but sorry
I am that ever I should have caused alarm to those who have behaved so
handsomely as you, sir, and as you, gentle lady, have done now: for all that
my heart is big with joy that our lost laird is come back to his own.’

< And most cordially do we rejoice with you,’ said Mr Morrison firmly.
‘Now, Kenneth, let us ride down to the glen, and see what can be done to
repair more completely the devastation caused by the flood: Dr Selwyn is
to meet us there. (Gertrude, will you be of the party ?’

It was towards the end of October, when a promise of prosperity was
again smiling through the valley, that Gertrude and Marion Lindsay, who,
with her parents, had arrived on the preceding evening at Dalcairdie, were
passing together through a small churchyard not very far from the house.
lt lay around a gray tower, whose spire shewed that it had once-formned
part of a church, the ruins of which might still be seen shrouded with
ivy. The friends paused by a tomb half raised above the heather, which
bore the names of Alexander Morrison and of Margaret his wite. ‘How
often 1 have felt,’ said Gertrude, ‘as if, from this lonely grave, sad voices
reproached us for possessing wealth not justly ours! It was only an over-
strung fancy working upon a sorely-tried heart, I know; yet the eyes of
that poor murdered mother have geemed fixed upon me while I sat night
after night by the side of my dying brothers, as though they asked me
what had become of her child! You may now imagine something of the
relief it was to me when all was made clear l

‘Surely, dear Gertrude, replicd Marion, ‘no blame ever rested upon you
or yours; and your father has acted so nobly °

‘Say justly rather,’ answered Gertrude: ‘Kenneth alone has had a right
to be generous.’

His praises brought a bright blush tu Marion's check, as she said—‘T
am sọ glad you are to be married from your old home! But tell me how
it was, that having known Dr Selwyn so long, you never thought of this
before ?’

‘It may have been thought of,’ said Gertrude, in her turn blushing ;
‘but perhaps he never would have spoken if he had not seen me poorer
than I was, and believed we wanted a home. But we shall not live far off,
Marion. When the church-bells ring out their welcome to the lost laird
and his bride, we shall hear them by our Christmas fireside. My father
feels already that sons are given to him again in Charles Selwyn and in
Kenneth Morrison.’ 7

‘And I, who never knew a sister, have found one in you, dear Gertrude !
Oh, how often good may come out of seeming evil, if only we have trust
in one another !’

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

AX attempt to compress within the limits of this Paper anything like a
history of the poetical literature of Germany, would only make our
pages a catalogue of names and dates; yet we may give, in connection
with a few specimens of German poetry, such outlines of its history and
characteristics as may afford some guidance to those who wish to read more
than our brief review.

If disposed to be critical, we might begin with the question so often
asked — What is poetry ?’? but we shall taki the word in its widest and
most popular sense. As the people understand ihis word ‘poetry,’ in
Germany as in England, it Comprehends all writings in verse which display
imagination or invention, it embraces, therefore, such widely - different
productions as the homely tales of Hans Sachs and the neble ballads of
Schiller; the marvellous dramas of Shakspeare aud the rude ‘ Corn-Law
Rhymes’ of Ebenezer Elliott ; and we are not aware that any critic has
authority to alter this wide definition. According to the general decision
of readers, Homer and Horace, Hans Sachs and Goethe, Shakspeare and
Pope. Burns and Wordsworth, must all be received as ‘poets ;’ yet how
widely and clearly distinct are the minds thus named together! Two
poets, both allowed to be great, may have little resemblance to cach other,
vxcopting in the fact, that both have written inventiy ely in verse. How
wide, for instance, is the interval between Shakspeare, the creator of a
dramatie world crowded with strongly-marked characters, and Words-
worth, whose verses give us scarcely the outlines of any character,
excepting his own! In this respect, the latter resembles Byron—from
whom he is clearly distinguished on all other poiuts—another instance of
the manifold varieties of genius comprehended under the name of ‘ poet.’

These prefatory remarks arc by no means intended to depreciate criti-
cism (though ¢fiticism in England ranks very low in our estimation), ror
tò suggest an inference that all judgmeut on the comparative value of

‘arious classes of poetry must be left to individual taste: this is far from
our meaning, On the other side, we believe that true criticism or analysis
may estimate the value of poetry as truly as we can judge of distances by
vur recognised standards of measurement. For granting—in accordance
with the public decision—that Homer, Horace, Sacks, Goethe, Bhakspeare,
Pope, Burns, and Wordsworth, must all be classed together as ‘ poets,’ the
questions still remain to be determined by criticism : “How must we re 2c0g-

No. 68. l

4

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

nise the great poet ?’—* How much did he invent ?’—and ‘ What qualities are
there of moral truth, spiritual greatness, or human interest, or fine senti-
ment, or rich humour, or pathos, to‘impart additional or peculiar value to
his poetry?’ In short, we would reject as arbitrary all that style of criti-
cism which once attempted to prove that Alexander Pope was ‘no poet;’
while we would honour that analysis which shews the distance between
such a drama as ‘ Hamlet ’ and a poem like the ‘ Rape of the Lock.’

The application of the above remarks to German literature will be very
plain when we state, that the comparative cstimates of German poets, even
by their own countrymen, are by no means clear and certain. It cannot
be said that the reputations of cven the most celebrated poetical writers of
Germany are as unmistakably established as the characters of our Shak-
speare and Milton, or even our Pope and Goldsmith. To prove this, we
might quote long passages of enthusiastic praises bestowed upon Goethe,
and then contrast them with the low estimates of the same poct given by
such writers as Görres and Novalis; or we might quote A. W. Schlegel
when he denies ‘ the truth or reality of Schiller’s dramatic characters ;’ or
other writers who have ventured to affirm that ‘ Schiller was no born poct,
but only a man of talent, who, by great industry, acquired a certain facility
in the use of poetical phraseology ;’ or another hardy writer (named Riemer,
if we remember well), who says that ‘ Schiller sto/e all that was good in his
poems from Goethe’ (!) If opinions can thus differ respecting men of the,
highest uote, then we shall not he surprised to find contradictory assertions
with regard to the merits of inferior men—-for instance, when we find
Wieland, a man widely celebrated in his day, now declared to have been
“no poet at all? We have briefly noticed these varieties of opinion to
shew the necessity of a wide definition of poctry, and also of toleration in
our judgments. When ‘ doctors disagree, smaller men should not pro-
nounce their censures as oracles. We must beg the critical reader of this
Paper to extend toleration to our opinions if they should happen to be
opposed to his own. If, for instance, he finds that we speak in very
moderate terms of some writer—say Wicland-—whosc name has filled a
considerable space in German poetical literature, we must respectfully beg
that he—the critical reader—will not attribute our comparative neglect of
such a writer to ignorance. These remarks will not be thought unnecessary
by the#e who know the vagueness of many English criticisms on German
writers, especially if they consider that we must, in this brief review, make
several statements for which we cannot assign all our reasons.

Without more preface, we proceed to estimate, as fairly as we can, the
value and significance of German poetry: perhaps our best way will be
to give some outlines of the history of poetical literature in Germany, and
then to attempt something like a classification of its productions.
` OF the oldest period, or the times preceding the outburst of chivalrous
and: romantic poetry in the thirteenth century, we shall say little; for
although German antiquaries have indulged in many interesting specula-
tions ‘regarding the poetry of that period, its remains, which have been
preserved down to our own times, are few. Yet from these it has been con-
jegtured, and with great probability, that ballads, or fragments of the oral
poetry of very early times, must have been preserved by tradition, until

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

they were collected and reproduced in the form of the ‘ Nibelungen-Licd,’
by some unknown writer of the twelfth or thirteenth century. Of this
singular and interesting old epic we need say no more here; for anything
like a fair account of it—such as may be found elsewhere *—would occupy
too much of our space. But another, and one of the most precious remains
of this early time, must at least be briefly mentioned here : it is the ‘ Life
of Christ,’ or a versification of the Gospel narrative, and was written by
Otfried, a monk, in A.D. 863. This was the first German work composed
in rhymes, as the more ancient ballads to which we have alluded were
marked by alliteration without rhyme. It is very interesting to trace in
this venerable relic the roots of the Teutonic words which we, as well as
our German neighbours, are now employing every howr—

*In days of yore how fortunately fared
The minstrel, wandering on from court to court,
Baronial hall or royal.’

These lines are strictly applicable to the poet’s profession in Germany in
the thirteenth and fourteenth ceunturics—the times of the ‘ Minnesingers.’
So far remote are those times from our modern thonghts and ways—espe-
cially in hard-working England—that it is difficult to make their facts
appear otherwise than as dreams. The very life of those old times,
‘wandering on from court to court, devoted to minstrelsy, chivalry, and
the praise of fair ladies, was exactly what we in these modern days call
‘romance ; while our acrual life, our journeys through hills instead of over
them, and at the rate of sume forty miles per liovr, our gas-lighted cities,
our commonplace crossings of the Atlantic, our Manchester mills, and,
perhaps more than all, our telegraph wires, which carry thoughts with
something like the speed of thought—would have presented to a miustrel
or romancist of the thirteenth century glorious materials with which he
would surely have constructed a tale far more wonderful, and, for his contem-
poraries, a thousand times more improbable than ‘Prince Arthur.’ This
consideration may perhaps enable the reader now to look upon the life of
one of the old ininstrels as a reality. s
The name of Walter von der Vogelweide may mark the characteristics
of this age; for Walter was, like many others, a knight and a minstrel—
one whose life was a romance, and whose verses remain to give us some
glimpses of the times in which he lived. Sometimes we find him hailing
the reappearance of spring after a lung wiuter, and almost imitating the
carollings of birds in his praise of nature; at another time he celebrates,
in chastc and melodious verses, the beauty and grace of the lady to whom
he devotes his songs, but whom he never names; then suddenly, on
turning over a page, we are surprised to find the gentle Minnesinger
suddenly changed into a stern satirist, denvuncing the political and
religious corruptions of his times, even venturing to rebuke the ‘Pope
of Rome,’ and predicting, as many other earnest reformers have done, a
speedy ruin of the world. These didactic and satirical verses shew that
Walter lived beyond the most ilourishing times of chivalry and miustrelsy,

* An analysis of tho ‘Nibelungen-Licd,’ with translated specimens of its style,
will be found in the yolume on * German Literature ’ in * Chambers’s Instructive and
Entertaining Library,’ ooa

CHAMBERS’'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

t

and saw the coming of that cloud which passed over both politics and
poetry in Germany in the fourteenth and fifteenth centurics. To speak
of the lays of the Minnesingers generally—we might select from them
a few which would please even now; but, to tell the whole truth, a fair
translation of the greater part would not please modern readers; for both
the Jove-songs and the lyrics in praise of nature would be considered tame.
The true characteristics of these old poems are youthfulness of feeling,
melodious language, and an almost feminine gentleness. ‘There is hardly
anything like passion even in thé love songs—indeed minne, the word by
which they were named, does not strictly mean ‘love,’ though we can find
no other English word for it. In one respect, however, we must commend
these lyrics: they served the true purpose of poetry; they were united
with the real lives of the Minnesingers; they were written uot to be read

- in solitude, but to be delivered with the living voice; to be sung to the

lute, or some other stringed instrument of the guitar kind, in the presence
of song-loving men and ladies,

‘whose bright eyes
Rained influence and adjudged the prize.’

This was a natural use of poetry, and it is necessary now to refer back
to such primitive practice that we may learn what poetry ought to be.
Nothing but long conventional usage could Jead us to tolerate such an
artificial thing as a long poem, filling a closely-printed volume, and in-
tended to be read and enjoyed in solitude and silence. ‘The most genuine
and natural use of poctry in our modern days is when some friend recites
to another some flowing song or lyrical ballad, or when a company unite
to listen to readings or recitations from our best poets. If poetry is not
to be musical, if the ear as well as the mind is not to be gratified, why do
we not turn it into prose at once? We must go back to the origin, the
natural history of poetry. to find the best criticism upon it. Through
forgetfulness of this, many long, prosy, so-called poems have been written
during the last half century, which will certainly be forgotten before A.D.
1900. One word more on this interesting point: it may be said that we
have still many songs set to music and sung; but we think it might be
proved, if.we had space here, that the modern style of musie is not adapted
to bring out and interpret the spirit and meaning of the highest poetry.
We believe that fine recitation, or, in other words, the melodious, im-
passioned, and expressive speaking of poetry, is the highest and purest
musie to which we can listen!

Into this digression we have been led by the Minnesingers. We must
now leave them, and turn trom the lays of chivalry to popular versitication—
from poetry to doggrel. Of course this change did not take place in reality
so suddenly as we here represent it on paper; but, in sober truth, the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries were as prolific in doggrel or low versif-
cation as the thirteenth century had been in poetry. This change in litera-
ture was indicative of important changes in society, to which we must now
allude. ‘The code of ethics which characterised the institution of chivalry
was too conventional, too mnch the creature of imagination, to bear the
«tests of time and the rude assaults of ridicule. We may trace, even to its
palmiest days, that tendency to present itself in extravagant contrast to the

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

dictates of sober sense which ultimately ‘made it the butt of popular
ridicule. The splendour of the institution under Frederick was so attractive,
that a crowd of imitators sprung up, deficient in the inward calling, the true
enthusiasm necessary to sustain the knighterrant at his proper degree of
dignity. Hence we find the original profession of high devotion to honour-
able ladies lapsing into licence, and the vocation of the chivalrous minstrel
degenerating in the hands of mechanical composers of monotonous stanzas.
Indeed minstrelsy became a trade, and, like other trades, was injured by
overabundant success.

‘The decline of morals aroused some minds to express their ccnsures
freely on clergy and laity in satirical and didactic poems; aud among these
the best of minstrel-refurmers was Walter, whose verses are full of sound
proverbs on the affairs of public and private life. ‘The didactic tendency
which he gave to the lays of the Minnesingers appeared afterwards in the
“ Walsche Giist,” a system of Jay morals. “By degrees it descended tu the
Jower classes. Poetry turned away from courtly to popular audiences; and
the conventional morality of the Minvesingers was changed for a popular
didactice and satiriv style, eften coarse enough. Hans Rosenplit, in 1460,
was one of the most popular poets of this class; and was followed by
Michael Beheim, whose style was very rude. As the knightly school of
poetry-had left out of its consideration, as unworthy of celebration, the
lives and doings of the people, these could not be expected to remain satis-
fied with a strain of poetry which never Bppealed tu their feclings. They
revenged themselves for this neglect by producing a poetry of their own, in
the shape of satirical fables, on the hypocri isie aud mummeries of courtly
lite. In the fourteenth century this style of poetry. if we may so cheaply
employ the name, prevailed over the decaying school of chivalry. Thus a
false and conventional refinement lapsed into the tone of v ulgar satire. So
every covering thrown over the surface of society, unaccompanied by a trae
general Improvement of the minds and dispositions of the people. is sure to
be torn away by sume rade outbreak of the real popular character.’

Of German poetry, or rather versizication, in the fourteenth and fifteenth `
centuries, we can hardly speak, except in a style which to English readers
may look like caricature. Surely the Muses never had so great a number
of unworthy worshippers as during these times in Germany! Never, else-
where, were such a number of hopeless subjects simultaneonsly afflicted
with the cacoéthes seribendi. Versification was now, iudeed, the favourite
popular amusement. ‘The ropemakers, the smiths, barbers, bakers, potters,
weavers, butchers, coopers, wheelwrights, and tailors, all had their songs
celebrating their several occupations. ‘There is something very soud,
though sometimes comical, in the spirit of these homely productions. We
should well iike to see such a fashion rev ived, but in a better style, so that
life and its interests might be once more linked with song, By “the by, we
have heard some very prosaic persons condemn all notions of spreading
such influences as poetry : and music among the people, calling them ‘ dreamy,’
‘ Utopian,’ and ‘fantastic ;’ yet we find that such ‘ dreamy notions ’ were
facts, realities, and so long ago as in the fifteenth century. "Tis true we
cannot say much for the quality of the poetry then current; but it was a
poetry for the people; it had a living interest; it was a moving power’ in

5

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

society; and we must leave the reader to consider if such a poetry has not
more import than a great part of the printed verse of modern times, which
fills the pages of neat foolscap ‘octavo volumes, and, escaping the notice of
the public, falls into the hands of some ‘stale, flat, and unprofitable ’ critic,
‘to be manufactured into a stinging article. We must say something more
of the curious productions of the fifteenth century; but, as we have already
noticed, our statements here are so much in danger of seeming like, exag-
gerations, that we shall prudently take shelter under a quotation from a
‘German literary historian and critic, Gervinus, whose authority on this
point will not be disputed:—‘ If we would understand the coarse and low
style in which poetry was written in these times, we must remember with
what a strange medley of topics versification was connected in the fifteenth
and also in the sixtcenth century. There was, in fact, hardiy any class or
calling in society which did not meddle with poctry; [so-called] and the
lowest and most vulgar topics were now thought worthy of illustration in
verse. The doctors gave their reyimina sanitatis and their rules of diet, £c.
in Latin and German verscs; astrology and physiognomy were explained
in rhymes; artists described their paintings and carvings in rhyme; topo-
graphy and histories of towns were given in verse; the pious man had his
book of prayers and confessions done into rhyme, and the hypochondriac
carried about with him his little book of rules of eating and drinking, with
prescriptions of physic, all neatly done up in verse. The peasant bad his
rules for foretelling the weather put into verse to assist his memory, and
verses for the same purpose were written on all the sciences. One Jacob
Mennel gave an analysis of the game of chess in rhyme; Hans Folz wrote a
poem on “Crockery,” describing carefully the important uses of jugs, mugs,
basins, plates, spoors, and pewter-dishes; the same writer also gave essays
in rhyme on the use of “Warm Baths,” and the “Rise of the Roman
Empire ;” one Jacob Kobel wrote a poem (7) on Good Behaviour at Meals ;”
Martin Agricola gave in rhyme a treatise on “Instrumental Music ;” the
military art was put into rhyme; fencing-masters explained in verses the
use of the sword; falconers made stanzas on the proper mode of cramming
and training young birds; farriers prescribed in common metre; confec-
tioners extolled in rhymes their own pic-crust; and lastly, one named
Schaller wrote a whole “ Natural History ” in rhyme!’ :

Said we not truly that a fair accowut of the poetry (1) of these times
must read like a caricature? Yet the above paragraph 18 simply a fair
Statement of facts, of wihuch abundant evidences have been preserved.
Nay, we have more than all this to tell: the art of rhyming was not left in
these times to individual cultivation; it was not a solitary occupation
pursued in the lonely garret, but, like other handicrafts, had its guilds
and unions, and was taught like shucmaking. In fact, joint-stock com-
panies were formed to produce rhymes! But now we will put away the
tone of ridicule; for really there was something very good in these said
companies, or, to call them by their proper name, Singing and Versifying
Clubs. They afforded some intellectual recreation to the people in times
‘when it was greatly needoll; and even we in England, in the nineteenth
century, when we consider what are the prevailing popular amusements of
gur‘own day, must confess that we do not find ourselves in a condition to
laugh fairly at these honest German citizens and handworkers of the

ü

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

fifteenth century, who united themselves to serve the Muses as well as
they could—who met together, when their daily tasks were done, and
forgot all their toil and care while the evening hours were devoted to the
recitation and singing of verses. The example is so pleasing that our
readers will perhaps like to see some of its details. Improbable as it may
appear to an English reader, it is a fact that versification was the favourite
amusement of many of the respectable citizens and handworkers; and
meetings for the composition and recitation of verse were established and
well attended in Mayence, Ulm, Nuremberg, and cther places. Indeed,
the ‘Singing School’ (or Süngerzunft) at Nuremberg was maintained until
the year 1770; while the ancient club of the same kind at Ulm has been
formally dissolved even in our own times, or in the year 1839. The
tone of these societies vus gencrally, but not exclusively, religious;
while their influence in affording a moral and intellectual recreation in the
place of the coarse physical pleasures of the times was undoubtedly very
commendable.

We will endeavour to give a slight sketch of the manners of the times
in connection with one of these singing schools. At Ulm the weavers
united to form a singing school. Let us imagine one of these good men
preparing for the mecting a copy of verses. All day, while he is employed
in his loom, he beguiles the hours of labour by conning over his verses on
some scriptural topic; and now and then, perhaps, he sings over the
melody which he has composed to tit his stanzas. In this he tatters him-
self that the merker (or wnpire; will not ind any four consecutive notes
borrowed from any melody hitherto known in the school: such originality
is demanded hy the rules of the Adnycrzanft. But now the time of work
is over: the weaver puts aside bis shutile, covers up the good cloth,
leaves the loom, and repairs (not to the ‘Jolly Sailor,’ or the noted
‘Cordial Gin Establishmeut’) but to the house of sume good brother singer,
to converse on the topics which will be brought forward at*the next
meeting on Sunday evening. And now the Sunday comes. In the church
a board is suspended ( something r like the board with the number of the
psahn to be sung in È elish diin hes) announcing that ‘the singing-school
will meet in the evening, when verses and sacred melodies on several
topics will he recited and sung.” Sometimes the meeting is held in the
parish church at the close of the aiternoon service. In other cases, the
members and their friends assemble in the town-hall. Here we find the
makers of verses and the composers of sacred melodies, with their friends
and pupils, and a considerable audience formed of respectable citizens with
their wives. All the proceedings are conducted with great order and
solemnity. In the most prominent scat we find the chief officer of the
society, named the Gemeri, aud beside him sit three or four other solemn
and official persons, for whose respective oltices we can hardly find suitable
English names: among them, however, is the Merker, whom we may
represent as the umpire. The society has also its ‘ properties.’ In that
large oaken chest beside the Merker are deposited chains of gold and
silver, with suspended jewels, which have been worn by succ cesstul candi-
dates for metrical honours. And now the solemn president, or Gemerk
(who is, in fact, a good honest weaver of broadcloth), opens the ponderous
folio Bible which lies on the desk before him, and opens at the same time

En

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE,

the proceedings of the meeting by beginning to read the passages whiclr
have been selected for versification. Various copies of verses are now
recited and sung; faults are noticed by the Merker; sometimes (in a tune,
‘ for instance) a plagiarism is suspected, and on this perhaps some little
discussion arises ; but this is soon put to rest by an appeal to a heavy and
strongly-clasped volume containing the notation of tunes which have
gained prizes or honours. Here is discovered the exact sequence of notes
on which the present candidate has founded his melody, either by acci-
‘dental coincidence or by unconscious memory. Of course he withdraws
his tune, determined to -be more careful another time, and to trust in
nothing Jess than strict originality. At last, after several recitations and
criticisms, one is declared to he the victorious candidate. Now the Merker
opens the great oaken chest, takes out a chaplet. which he places on the
head of the victor, and puts round his neck a silver chain, from which a
jewel is suspended. These articles still remain the property of the Zunft,
or club; but the master-singer is allowed to wear them publicly on great
occasions. Such a coronation was of course a soarce of triumph for the
wife, the family, and all the relatives of the victor. Glorious with these
decorations, he now secretly determines that he will go and recite his
verses at the next meeting in the neighbouring town, and vanquish all the
versifying shoemakers there. We may add that, at the close of a meeting,
the best verses were carefully copied in a large volume, which was strictly
preserved as the common property of the Zunft. In this way many pro-
ductions of the master-singers have been left to our time.

‘Such,’ says Dr Vilmar, ‘ were the recreations on Sunday evenings and
saints’ days of our honest working forefathers in the olden time; and
those who, like myself, have sprung from the working-classes, may now
look back upon those quiet and imocent pastimes without being ashamed
of their ancestors.” We have dwelt rather long upon this pleasing picture
of olden times, because we think it carries a good and wholesome moral for
our own times. Of course we do not think of anything like reviving such
institutions as those old singing and versifying schools; but it is encou-
raging for all who would endeavour to spread any intellectual recreations
among the people, to reflect that they are not aiming at an object which is
imaginary and unattainable, but at oue which has been a reality, and may
be so again.

yt from any of the schools of versification just described, this period
Agai remarkable for the simple but often pathetic lyrics or secular songs
| With arose, as if spontancously, among the people. Some of these have
been preserved to our day: no writer's name is affixed to them; all we
know of their origin is, that they sprung from the people in a time when
all the feelings of the heart and the most affecting events of life seemed
naturally to find expression in songs. Many of them were linked to
melodies so well loved by the people, that Luther or his friends found it
expedient to set their new hymns to the old song-tunes. As a specimen
of their simplicity, we translate an old ‘ farewell’ song.

» oie

Many stars are in the sky ; Many birds about us fly,
Many sbeep together lie And as many times I’ll sigh;
_ In the quiet meadow ; ‘Fare you well, my treasure !”

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

Shall we, after long dull years, At the close of every day,
Many sorrows, many fears, Ere I shut my eyes I’ll pray,
Meet again, my treasure ? Heaven preserve my treasure !
Every morn, while you ’re away, If it must be so, when lying -
‘Soon as I awake Ill say, On my deathbed, 1°, when dying,
‘ Oh return, my treasure !’ Think of thee, my treasure !

We must not leave the fifteenth century without some notice of the low
and coarse satires which formed, indeed, the most prominent features in the
versification of these times. The favourite objects of these satires were
the clergy and the aristocracy; and the popularity gained by the most
wretched productions can only be explained on the supposition that such
satires truly indicated the state of popular feeling, and were received as
indirect but effectual organs of the democratic principles which were now
rapidly spreading. We can hardly give any quotations from these singular
remains of old times, though they might furnish rich materials for ‘ curio“
sities of literature.’ In one, Parson Amis, a bencfived clergyman, is
represented as gaining his livelihood by a series of scandalous impositions
on public credulity. Parson Kalenberg is no better: on one occasion he
finds all the good ale in his cellar turned sour, and instantly devises a
plan for selling it at a good price to his parishioners. He announces that
on a certain day he will take a tight from the top of the steeple. Of
course the peasantry collect in great muahers to witness the feat: it
is a sultry summer afternoon; and as the parson keeps the spectators
long waiting while he is preparing to fly, they are glad to refresh them-
selves even with sour ale, and pay for it the extortionate price demanded.
In another popular tale, a parish priest is represented as so fatuous that
he could not remember the days in a week. To remedy this defect he
adopts a curious expedient; every day he ‘makes a birch-broom,’ and by
placing the six brooms in a row, and sedulously counting them, he knows
when Sunday comes, and prepares for reading mass. But sume wag, aware
. of the priest’s stratagem, steals the broom that should mark Saturday, and,
consequently, on Sunday morning the poor priest is found making another
broom instead of going to church. These are very mild and comparatively
harmless specimens of the satires current in this period. The most pointed
and severe are exactly those which, for obvious reasons, we cannot quote.
We have secn nothing in Dean Swift more truculent than some of the
stories which might be selected from the popular books of this period.
The kuight had been the hero of romances in the preceding times, and
the common people—the boors, as they were called—were hardly men-
tioned in aristocratic poetry. But now the people, having acquired the |
art of versification, employed it tọ be revenged upon their superiors. The
favourite hero of the most popular tales was now gencrally represented as
a boor, an illiterate peasant, a professed fool, but with a strong taint of
thé rogue in his character—one who, by the mere force of his native wit,
could refute all the clergy, answer the queries of the most learned doctor
or lawyer, and reduce a bishop to silence. The coming times of insurrec-
tion and revolution were thus foreshadowed in popular literature; and ‘we
may safely assert that the very spirit which aftetwards found an outlet in

the terrible ‘ Peasants’ War’ may be distinctly recognised in.the familiar
No. 68. g

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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

and comic versification of the fifteenth century. For what were the marks
of the ‘ Volks-biicher’ (the ‘ People’s Books’) of this time? Satire, wild
and coarse, expressing a contempt of all authority, ridicule of the preten-
sions of the scholastic or educated class, and mockery of everything repre-
sented as high and sacred. We may go so far as to say, that any reflective
réeafler, after a fair perusal of such a series of satires, might venture to assert,
even if we suppose him to be quite ignorant of the historical facts of the
case, that some great revolution, political or religious, must have followed
such a popular literature. Here is surely a good comment on the old text
about making ballads for the people, and also a warning for those who
neglect to employ the proper means of diffusing good information and
intellectual recreation—who refuse, indeed, to give to a wholesome and
improying literature a fair chance in its contest with the low and vile pro-
ductions of the press which are the disgrace of our times. Thus speaks
the fifteenth century in Germany to the nineteenth in England.

We must now leave this interesting part of our topic, and hasten to
notice the progress of German poetry in the times of Luther. Of poetry,
in the higher or more exclusive sense of the word, we have still little to
say. Luther holds a place in the annals of poetical literature on account
of the hymns he wrote in connection with the movement of the Reforma-
tion. Ilis bold and stirring version of the psalm— Ein’ feste Burg ist

unser Gott’—
€ A safe stronghold our God is still,

A trusty shield and weapon !?

is well known, bu‘ cannot be fairly translated. This may, indeed, be said
of many other popular hymns written by Luther and his friends. Their
merit does not consist merely in the sentiments they convey, but rather
in the union of style and purport; in the force, directness, and euphony
of language; and also in the music of their rhymes, for which we could
find no equivalents in English. Toattempt to translate such hymns would
only prove that we did not truly understand their character. A German
must be the best judge of their merits, and therefore we quote the fol-
lowing description from Dr Vilmar’s ‘Lectures on Gorman Poetry ?—
‘It must be especially noticed that these hymns, like our secular popular
songs, were not composed to be read, but to be sung; and so closely is
their melody inwoven with their meaning, that if we would judge them
fairly, we must have their spirit, their metre, and their music given at
once, as when they are sung by the congregation. They were indeed the
sacred popular songs of the Lutheran times, and were founded in many
instances on the secular melodies dear to the people from old remembrance.
Thus we account for their rapid and marvellous effect in spreading the
Lutheran faith.. A hymn in these times was scarcely composed before
its echoes were heard in every street. The people crowded around the
itinerant singer (who now, in accordance with the spirit of the times, sang .
Luther’s hymn instead of ballads), and as soon as they had heard a new
hymn sung once, they would heartily take up the last verse as a chorus.
«Thus these sacred melodies found ‘their way into every church and every
rivate house; yea, and whole towns were won over to the new faith, as
by a oe blow, by the sound ofa hymn. Such lyrics as those of Luther

ki Ade

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

—‘ Rejoice my Brother Christians all!’ and ‘From depths of wo to thee
I call!’ or that by Paul Speratus, ‘Salvation now has come for all! or
that by Nicolaus Decius, ‘To God on high be thanks and praise !’—flew,
as on the wings of the wind, from one side of Germany to another: they
were not read merely, but, in the strongest sense of the words, were learned
by heart; and so deeply printed in the memories and affections of the
people, that their impression remains in the present day.’

We now turn to the secular poetry of the Lutheran times, and here we
find Hans Sachs, a rhyming shoemaker, busily engaged in writing a
voluminous series of familiar tales and fables in verse. Sachs has been
too much despised. His name was once covered with ridicule, on account
of the homely characteristics of his writings; but Goethe and other critics
have restored to the honest rhymer the honour due to him in connection
with the national literature of Germany. ‘Though we can discover nothing
like poetry in its highest meaning in his verses, he wrote with rernarkable
facility, could tell a story well, had a rich fund of genial unaffected humour,
and often conveyed a deep ^nd good moral under the disguise of a gro-
tesque narrative. Indeel the incidents in many of his stories are so
grotesque, that, although we should like to give some specimen of his
verse, we have turned over manv pages of his tales, vainly endeavouring
to find one which would be relished by a modern taste. There is an
apparent irreverence in many of them which, in Luther's times, was
regarded as not inconsistent with piety. Hans sometimes directed his
homely and good-humoured satire against the suldiery. In one tale, for
instance, he tells us that the Prince of Darkness had despatched a demon
to bring away some half-dozen of the foot-soldiers, who were notorious
for their profane conversation; but the demon himself was so terrified by
their talk, and gave to his master such a description of their mode of life,
that it was resolved they should be excluded even from Pandemonium.
In another tale on the same subject, St Peter, the gatekeeper of Paradise,
exercising charity rather than good judgment, admits a few of these
‘Inud- soldiers’ (lands-knechien) into the abode of happiness, where they
soon prove the truth of the old saying, that a change of place does not
insure a change of mind. Unable to enjoy any of the pleasures of the place,
they soon collected their pence, and began their oid amusement of gambling,
which ended as usually in a violent quarrel’ After some difficulty, St
Peter contrives to eject these unpleasant guests. Such were the stories
with which Hans Sachs filled so many pages. His verses may be regarded
as giving a summary of the characteristics of many familiar and humorous
versifiers before his times; while in ease and fluency of style, combined
with not inconsiderable power of invention, he surpassed them all.

Leaving the times of Luther and ITans Sachs, we must pass very bviefly
over a period in national literature marked by the tame, cold, and artificial
character of its so-called poetry. Style and language were now the almost
exclusive objects regarded by German writers in verse. Martin Opitz
(1597—-1639) was the most celebrated versifier of his times, and with the
aid of several compeers, contributed something towards the refinement of
his native tongue, but left little or nothing worthy of notice for its poetical
merits. . Paul Flemming and Paul Gerhard, the writers of devotional

11

CHAMBERS’'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

Itymns which still hold a place in German psalmody, are the two chief
exceptions to the prevailing rule of dulness in the poctical literature of
the seventeenth century.

The former part of the eighteenth century produced a crowd of inferior
poets or versifiers, of whom we can give no particular notices. In many
respects they were superior to Opitz and his followers, but as poets they
were soon lost in the superior lustre of Gocthe and Schiller. Perhaps the
most noticeable feature in their poems was their didactic purport. Among
the writers of moral fables in verse, Christian Gellert may be distinguished
on account of the surprising celebrity which his fables once enjoyed.
These fables being simply the results and maxims of common sense, given
in a clear, familiar, and pleasing style, were suited for a large audience ;
but this fact alone can hardly account for all the favour bestowed upon
them. To explain it we must refer to the high popular esteem in which
the personal character of Gellert was held during his lifetime, and long
afterwards. He was admired and revered as a moral teacher by men of
every station. The king’s physician was sent to attend this writer when
dying; and his death produced in Germany a general mourning, such as
has seklom or never attended the fate of any other literary man. The
tule of the poor countryman who took to the house of Gellert a cartload
of firewood, as a grateful acknowledgment of the enjoyment he had found
in reading the ‘ Fables,’ is a fair instance of the admiration with which
even the lower classes regarded the amiable moralist. In all the higher
qualities of poctry, the didactic versification of Gellert was totally wanting.
This judgment is equally applicable to the fables written by Hagedorn,
Lichtwer, and others in this period.

Among these inferior poets (the followers of Bodmer, Gottsched, and
Gellert) Friedrich Klopstock (1724 —1803) arose; and when, inspired by
recollections of Milton’s great work, he produced in 1748 the first three
cantos of the ‘ Messiah,’ all Germany believed that at last a great epic
poet had appeared. As, when we would understand the effect of a light
in painting, we must consider the shade with which it forms a contrast ;
so, to explain the admiration of Klopstock’s poem, we must fairly estimate
the contemporaneous minor poetry. Above this it arose as a cedar over
shrubs and brambles. It was indeed a great poem when compared with
the productions of Opitz, Gottsched, Gellert, and a crowd of other
versifiers. We can scarcely imagine that any future poet, however great,
can enjoy such enthusiastic praises as were lavished on Klopstock ; for
the estimation of the poet was in a great measure the result of the cir-
cumstances amid which he came forth. A critic says of Klopstock: ‘ He
was like the morning star, hardly foretold by the faintest dawn, but arising
almost suddenly out of darkness.’ And he adds, very truly, ‘It must
again be deep, dark night in the world of poetry before any other star can
by its appearance awaken the enthusiasm which hailed the “ Messiah 1”?
Apart from these favourable circumstances, the qualities which recom-
mended Klopstock’s epic and other poems—especially the odes—were
warmth and depth of feeling, a flowing and sometimes eloquent style,

a with considerable power of description. But, taken as a whole, the
‘Messiah’ must be regarded as heavy, prolix, and unworthy of a place
amongyenèe poems, on account of its poverty of action and progress. It

-

GERMAN POLTS AND POETRY.

has now fallen to that rank in literature where lie the works occasionally
named, but seldom or never read. The fame of Klopstock is traditional,
telling what the poet was for his contemporaries, rather than what he is
for modern readers. Yet his name must ever hold a distinguished place
in the history of his country’s literature, and will always be associated
with remembrance of his amiable character and happy life ; for Klopstock
was one who found in literature, especially in poetry, something better
than faine—happiness.

The next important epoch in the annals of German poetry is marked
by the names of Lessing, Herder, Goethe, and Schiller. These four
writers, unlike in other respects, may be here associated, as their united
influence produced a great change in the character of poetical literature.
Lessing, an able critic, prepared a path for genius by sweeping aside old
pedantries ; Herder enlarged the views of his contemporaries by his trans-
lations of ‘Popular Ballads ;’ and Gocthe, with Schiller, began’ to cultivate
the new field of poetry now opened for them. These latter names have
such a prominence in German literature, that we must not attempt to
discuss their merits within the limits of this Paper. Their contemporaries
are more easily described. Among these were many weak sentimental
writers, whose names are now remembered rather on account of their
connection with a great era in national literature than on account of their
individual merits. It is curious that in Germany, during the latter half
of the eighteenth ceninry, or trom 1767 to the time of the French Revo-
lution, something which we may style an intellectual epidemic of a senti-
mental and romantic character pervaded the literary world, and produced
as its symptoms a mass of wild and crude poetry and romances. The
dissatisfaction, restlessness, and longing for novelty which in France was
manifested in political theories, was in Germany chiefly confined to lite-
ature; and its results here were rather absurd than alarming. Goethe
and Schiller suffered for a time under the prevailing disease: in the former
it found a vent in the ‘Sorrows of Werter;’ in the latter it produced
a crude drama—-' The Robbers. But these, being strong men, shook off
the malady, which in others assumed the form of a chronic complaint.

‘What is the position of Goethe as a poet?’ is a question more easily
asked than answered. Goethe, compared with many other German writers,
is as clear as noonday; but surrounded as his works are now with endless
criticisms and commentaries of the misty style, their light scems struggling
through a fog. On no writer, ancient or modern, has such a vast amount
of weak, mystical admiration, and vague, cloudy criticism heen expended.
His name is well known by English readers; yet not one in five hun-
dred would be able to reply, in a clear and concise style, to the ques-
tion, Why is the name of Goethe so prominent in German literature?
Is it because he wrote ‘Faust?’ Nay; for the best critics say that this
poem displays only a part of the writer’s character and genius. Is it on
account of his lyrics and other short poems? These are very good in
their kind, but surely not sufficient to make a European reputation. We
need not ask, Did his greatness consist in his dramatic powers? for his
‘Tasso, ‘Egmont,’ and ‘Natural Daughter, when regarded as dramas,

are very deficient. Or was he a great artist in the construction his
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CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

novels? No; it must be confessed by every one who is not a blind
admirer that, when seen in an artistic point of view, the ‘ Wilhelm Meister’
and the other novel are very imperfect. Then why is Goethe so widely
celebrated ? Or why have his character and his works called forth volu-
minous comments equal in number to those upon Shakspeare? Who can
answer this question as clearly and conciscly as we could reply to a query
about any celebrated English author? For instance, if asked for the
characteristics of such poets as Pope, Cowper, and Crabbe, how easily we
refer to the pointed wit and happy language of the first, the pleasant
didactic verse of the second, and the graphic details of human character
by the third! But as soon as we ask for an explanation of Goethe’s
greatness, we are lost amid clouds of German mysticism; and, to mend
the matter, some English and American authors increase the confusion by
trying to write like Germans, and only producing what honest Sir Huga
Evans would have called ‘affectations? We believe indeed that affec-
tation, especially what we may call ‘ the affectation of profundity,’ has con-
tributed greatly to the confused heap of verbiage about Gocthe ; and, to
explain how this has been done, one instance may be given. The most.
mysterious of all Gocthe’s writings is the second part of ‘ Faust,’ which
was the latest of the writer’s poetical productions. At first sight, to any
English reader, it would appear to be an extremely fantastic production,
as it is full of the talk of such personages as the Sirens, the Oreads,
Proteus, Nercus, and Mephistopheles. On this work, which has an alle-
gorical character, the most confused and mystica] criticisms have been
written. Some have regarded it as a most profoundly-significant poem :
others have honestly confessed that they do not see much in it beyond
good versification. To give instances: one Euglish writer says—‘ The
second part of “ Faust” is remarkable only as a specimen of varied and
harmonious versification, of which a considerable part was written when
the poet was more than eighty years old.” On this a writer in an English
review, supposed to be conversant with German literature, expresses a
very contemptuous opinion of such a shallow judgment pronounced on
such a profound work. Emerson, the American writer and lecturer, speaks
of the same work in the following terms :— The Helena, or the second
part of “ Faust,” is a philosophy of literature set in poetry; the work of
one who found himself the master of histories, mythologies, philosophies,
sciences, and national literatures in the encyclopedical manner of modern
erudition.’ ‘This reflective and critical wisdom makes the poem more
truly the flower of this time.’ ‘The wonder of the book is its intelli-
gence,’ &e. Now, as a curiosity in literature, let the reader contrast all
this mystical admiration of a very cloudy book with the following clear
and fair statement by an able critic—a German—and one of the most
sincere ‘and enthusiastic of all Gocthe's admirers :—Dr Vilmar says— The
allegory in this second part of “Faust” is so imperfect, that it affords
not in many parts a proper veil for the figures intended to be covered by
it. Already many passages in this second part have become riddles, for
the hopeless solution of which we may vainly strive until we lose our
temper! Others may indeed be very easily guessed; but not without
the vexation of finding, under a great array of symbols, nothing more than
a mee insignificant, and- trivial result! So we may conclude, that in the

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

course of some fifty years the whole of this second part will be almost entirely
destitute of meaning, and consequently of interest.

Is there hot something very curious here? The accomplished and sound
German critic, with an enthusiastic admiration of Goethe (having also a Ger-
man’s peculiar patience in solving riddles and explaining mysteries), still
gives the above very unfavourable judgment of a book in which the English
reviewer sees true profundity; while the American lecturer, with a clair-
voyance almost peculiar to himself, sees through the work at once, makes
no complaint of its mystery, but finds in it ‘ critical wisdom’ and ‘ the
results of eighty years of observation.’ Such writing is, as Charles Lamb
said jocosely of the Germans, ‘ very profound indeed! We are tempted
to explain the puzzle by an anecdote. On one occasion we heard an
eloquent lecture on one of Goethe’s works ; but some of the praise bestowed
did not seem to us fairly applicable to the book. So we carried the said
book to the lecturer; and, when we expressed our dissent from some of his
statements, he, in a very good-humoured style, confessed that he had never
read through the work in question!

The preceding remarks will not be understood to imply any depreciation
of Goethe as an author. We have been speaking of his critics and com-
mentators, and not of himself. It is obvious, after the specimens of contra-
dictory views given above, that some considerable space would be required
for a fair analysis of Geethe’s character. At present, we may, however,
notice that the interest excited by his work” in Germany is not to be ex-
plained simply by reference to his poetical works. The catalogue of his
writings might shew that he must not be regarded solely as a poet. He
wrote. beside his lyrical or occasional poems and his dramas, novels,
memoirs, criticisms on literature and art, autubiography, essays on natural
history and physical science, and a multitude of letters. Throughout all
these multifarious writings we may trace the influence of a peculiar, indivi-
dual, refined, and yet. practical philosophy, which is implied rather than dis-
tinctly or formally inculcated ; and it is partly this philosophy, as we think,
which has attracted so much attention, aud called forth so many commenis.
For ourselves, we readily confess that Goethe is more interesting as a prac-
tical philosopher than as a poet.

No such obscurity attends the characteristics of Schiller. His poetical
works may be divided into two chict sections—the ballads and the dramas.
In the heroic ballads, ‘the Cranes of Ibycus,’ the ‘ Fight with the Dragon,’
and others, we find noble purport united with graphic narration. In other
poems we sec a tendency to abstract thought, which is injurious to a poet.
In his dramas, which contain powerful sccnes and fine sentimental passages,
we often find the didactic purport brought forward in too direct a style. We
are inclined to agree with A. W. Schlegel when he questions the ‘ reality’
of Schiller’s dramatic characters—to these the poet often gave either an
ideal virtue or an unredeemed propensity to vice; thus making ther im-
personations rather than men. But our limits will not admit a full descrip-
tion of Schiller as a poet and a dramatist.

We have purposely omitted, in its chronological order, the name of
Christoph Martin Wieland, an elder contemporary of Goethe, and one of the
most prolific poetical writers of the eighteenth century; but we may now
pay some attention to this writer, who affords us a very remarkable instance

15

CHAMBERS:'S PAPERS FOR TIE PEOPLE.

of that uncertainty of some reputations in German literature to which we
have alluded in the beginning of this Paper. Wieland was a man most
widely celebrated in his day (1733—1813), though he is now virtually for-
gotten. He wrote numerous romances and poems, which were loudly
applauded, and are now seldom or never read. Yet such is the influence of
a traditional reputation, that it might now seem presumptuous to some
English readers if we said that Wieland was hardly worthy of the name of
a poet, or that his writings, taken altogether, are almost worthless. Yet
we will venture to say, that in our opinion he was an artificial maker of
verses rather than a truc-born poet, and that we cannot even see sufficient
reason for all that has been said in commendation of his prose style. To
confirm this judgment, it may be well to quote the remarks of an able

ferman critic, Dr Vilmar—the strongest part of his censure of Wieland’s
writings we leave untranslated.—‘ Wieland,’ says Dr Vilmar, ‘ was the man
of his day, especially for the higher classes of society ; for people infected by
the fine and sweet poison of French literature, people to whom thought was
tedious, and all enthusiasm was ridiculous. To such readers Wieland
introduced a suitable German literature; and it is*almost solely by this
interest in the matcrials or subjects of his books that we can now compre-
hend how he could have becn so lauded and celebrated during his life.
After his death he was soon forgotten. Of the materials of his works,
modern French levity in a masquerade dress, or the most insipid philosophy
of the day, given d-du-Shaftesbury or d-lu-Voltaire, as we find it in
“ Agathon,” or“ Peregrinus Proteus,” or “ Aristippus™—what can we call
them but mummeries, destitute of both moral meaning and artistic taste? But
what must be said of such contents as we find in the ** Nadine,” in “ Diana
and Endymion,” in the “ New Amadis,” or the truly abominable “| Komba-
bus ;” not to mention so many other pieces in the same vein, regarding which
pieces Wieland was quite pleased with himself, because he had been able
to say in plain German so many things which, as people had believed, could
be fitly expressed only in French-—these are matters in which none save a
‘most degraded mind could have found pleasure, and such as could not have
found readers except in a very dissolute state of society. Yea, and even
in his better subjects, say rather in the only good subject (excepting the
« Abderites”) on which he ever wrote- -I mean in his poem of “ Oberon”—
how deficient is the style—how arbitrary, artificial, and fantastical, and, at
the same time, how flat and dull!

Such is the severe censure passed upon a poetical writer who was once
numbered among the great men of his age. And if such a judgment is
pronounced on Wieland by a very fair critic, we may venture to say that
many other names in the literature of this period are now renrembered
merely on account of the celebrity which they once enjoyed, and not on
account of their intrinsic merits. With this remark we may pass over a
crowd of names which, in German works of literary history, are found
around the more significant names of Goethe and Schiller. In comparison
with these writers, all the other versifiers of their period must be regarded
as, at best, poetical writers of mediocrity.

‘We can only mention, in the most cursory style, the names of a few
“poets among the contemporaries and followers of Goethe and Schiller. Voss
deserves to be remembered rather as an able translator of Homer and

. 36

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

Virgil than as a poet. Schubart will be remembered for his singular
history rather than on account of his poems. This writer was a very
unfortunate and ill-regulated man. After he had published some frivolous
satires, he was seized in the most despotic manner by the Duke of Wiir-
temberg, and imprisoned for ten years in the fortress of Asperg. His
poems are curious instances of that taste for the horrible, which had its
day in Germany, and is still found among the lowest classes of society.
His ballads, decorated with such lines as, ‘See you the blood-stain on the
wall?’ or, ‘Ha! here’s one bone, and here’s another!’ were once read
with thrilling interest. Matthison and Gaudenz were both descriptive
poets and writers of pleasing sentimental verses. Holderlin and Schulze
resembled each other in the melody of them Janguage: the latter affords a
remarkable instance of misdirected talent. After losing, by early death,
the young lady whom he loved, he devoted his genius to celebrate her
name, ‘ Cecilia,’ in a poem of twenty cantos! Platen was one of the most
polished and correct of poetical writers; but his poems want life and
interest. A similar opinion may he expressed with regard to Riickert,
who has written a great number of poems. Je is a fine master of versiti-
cation, and has putt many good sentiments in sweet metres ; but is deficient
in dramatic power and narrative interest. Chamisso was by birth a
Frenchman, but gained a place in German literature by his tale of ‘Peter
Schlemiil’ and several poems, which shew a partiality for gloomy topics.
Uhland holds a very high place among the madern poets, chiefly on account
of his popular and national ballads. Schwab in sume respects resembles
Uhland as a writer of ballads. The name of Theodor Körner is well
known. After writing several poems and dramatic picces of condiderable
promise, he joined a troop of volunteers to defend his country, and fell in
a skirmish with an ambuscade. His character, and the circumstances of
his death, have doubtless contributed some part of the interest attending
his poems. Since the days of Schiller, poetical writers have been nume-
rous: but we are not able to trace any sure progress in poetry. Indivi-
duality, power, and originality are wanting in a great number of productions.
For every one original poct we have a crowd of imitators. This indeed is
the case everywhere ; but, as it appears to us, the names of such imitators
are soon forgotten in England, while in Germany they are preserved too |
carefully in literary memoirs. It would surely improve several German
works of literary histery, if many insignificant names were thrown aside
and forgotten. An author, of whom we can mention no one clear and
strong characteristic or original trait, can hardly be worthy of remem-
brance, We pass over, therefore, many followers or imitators of Lessing,
Wieland, and Gocthe, and many others who have written poems which we
cannot clearly characterise. lt must be confessed that the reading public
of Germany have been far too indulgent toward indifferent and imitative
versificrs. Next 1o Goethe and Schiller, who are, m a sense of which an
English reader hardly comprehends the force, the great poets of Germany,
we would class, not the writers of long and ambitious poems, but the
authors of songs and ballads which are among the most genuine and
pleasing productions of German literature. Excepting the works of her
two leading poets, of which we may speak in another Paper, Germany has
produced little that can be-called great im poetry. It is hardly necessary
' 17

' CHAMBEBS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

to state that there never was a German Shakspeare ; and for names having
equal significance with such as Milton, Dryden, Pope, Cowper, Burns,
Crabbe, Wordsworth, or Byron, we may look in vain through the roll of
German poets. Pleasing and popular songs and romantic ballads are the
best features of the poetical literature of our neighbours. In didactic
purport,’ in mastery of real life, in vigorous narrative, stern satire, or,
briefly, in strength and variety of character, it is immeasurably inferior to
our English poetry.

We may now look at poctry in another way, by dividing it into several
classes ; and, in accordance with our belief concerning its origin, we must
give the first place to lyrical productions, sacred and secular. In hymns,
fall of devotional feeling and powerful expression, Germany is rich; but,
as we have said, these lyrics will not bear translation; for to represent
them truly, meaning, metre, rhyme, and melody must be kept united: to
alter their form is to destroy their character. Luther was the leader of
German hymnology, and was worthily followed by such hymn-writers as
Flemming and Gerhard. By other composers of sacred lyrics, a mystical
and sentimental style was introduced, which was carrted to its highest
degree in the hymns of the ‘ Briidergemeinde,’ or United Brethren.

In secular songs—not merely so-called lyrics, but songs that may be
sung—Germany has been rich ever since the times of the Minnesingers.
Here we have songs celebrating the changes of nature, especially the
revival of the year—full of fiesh interest, such as nature alone can inspire.
The first notes of the mghtingale, the opening of the rose, the unfolding
of the glossy green foliage in the woods; these were the darling topics ot
the old minstrels, and are still the themes of poetry. Here is monotony ;
but it is one of which the healthy ind never tires. We might endeavour
to translate a specimen of these songs; tur instance, an old lyric by Walter
von der Vogelweide—

, ‘Fresh flowers are springing through the grass,
And laughing at the sun ;’

or a song by Philip Harsdorffer—

‘The frosty old winter has hurried away,
The hillocks of snow
lave melted beneath the warm breathing of May,
And the sweet flowers blow ;’

or that by Philip von Zescn—

‘ Awake, happy thoughts! be forgotten all sorrow !
For winter is passing away !?
But it would not be easy to preserve both the spirit and the form of such
songs; and we like them too well to hurt them. The same observation
may be applied to a great number of popular lyrics, such as may be found
in that true German volume, to which we have no counterpart in English,
‘ Fincke’s Household Treasury of Popular Songs;’ including ‘ Student Songs,’
‘Workmen's Songs,’ ‘Soldiers’ Songs,’ ‘Lyrics for Children,’ and a host
gf others which we cannot specify. Of one of the Bacchanalian songs, the
“famous ‘Rhine-Wine Lied” we give two or three verses; but this, we

think, could not be fairly translated entirely :—
18

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.’

RHINE-WINE SONG.

Deck with green leaves the bright, o’erflowing goblet,
And drain the cup of bliss !
In all the lands of Europe, jovial comrades,
Youll find no wine like this! a

The Rhine! the Rhine! ’tis there our grapes are growing ;
Upon its banks the vine

Spreads out her purple clusters, richly glowing ;
Be blessings on the Rhine! !

Drink and sing giadly while the cup is shining,
‘Be blessing on the Rhine!’

And if you know where some sick man is pining,
Go; give to him this wine!

Next to songs, we may rank odes, elegies, and sonnets; but these we
regard as generally cold and artificial. The sonnets written by Goethe and
Platen are among the best of their kind, and Gocthe’s elegies, ‘ Alexis and
Dora’ and ‘Euphrosyne, are full of poetic beauty. But passing thus
briefly over this section, we find a more fruitful tield in Narrative Poetry.
This includes a wide range of topies and modes of treatment—fables,
legends, ballads, romances, and epics. Of German epic poems we will say
little; for, as we have alroady confessed, the notion of a long, long poem
covering, with verses all in one metre, some five or six hundred octavo
pages, appears to us unreasonable, even after the great works of Homer,
Virgil, and Milton; and the German epics by Klopstock, Bodmer, Zacharia,
Wieland, Sonnenberg, and Krug von Nidda, have only contirmed our opi-
nion. These are certainly ‘ great works,’ wher measured as we measure
‘loth; but in truth, nature, and genial inspiration, they may be inferior to
many short poems in our next section—Romances and Ballads. These
form one of the most interesting departments of German poetry. Between
the romance and the ballad we can tind hardly any distinction except in
the shorter form of the romance. Both give poetical narratives, iuter-
spersed with sentiment; and have for their topics either events of history,
or legendary lore (sometimes supernatural), or private anecdotes, or even
facts of common life. Herder may be regarded as the introducer of a
new style in this department by his ‘Popular Ballads of many Nations.’
Bürger, having gained an acquaintance with the true, popular tone of
English and Scottish ballads, imitated it very successfully in several metri-
cal tales. ‘The success of Bürger was chietly due to his spirited and fluent
versitication, which sometimes reminds us of the melody of Burns; a far
greater poet in other respects. In the topics of his poems, and their mode
of treatment, Bürger is often low, coarse, and trivial. Goethe and Svhiller
wrote ballads which may be described in another Paper: at present, we
can only notice that the latter gave to the heroic or historical ballad its
highest character, as we sec in his ‘Fight with the Dragon,’ and other
similar pieces. To notice here all the names of writers who have contri-
buted to modern poetical literature in the form of ballads and‘ romances
would be impossible; for in this fertile department writers are very nume-

rous, and many good productions are from names of little celebrity. The
19

. CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

’ 4

name of Bürger reminds us of that long series of goblin legends to which
so many ballads have been devoted. - Biirger’s story: of ‘ Leonora,’ who is
carried away. by her spectre-lover to the charnel-house, is recommended
by a vivid style of narrative and force of versification, and may represent
a large class of such legends which have been received with favour in
Germany. At the close of some snch legend of the ‘Erl-King,’ or the
‘Goblin of the Harz Mountains,’ an English reader is disposed to ask:
‘But what does it all mean?’ or, ‘What is the purport?’ while the con-
tented German simply enjoys the supernatural imagery without troubling
himself about its human interest. ‘There is here a very strong distinction
between the tastes of the two nations. We may even say that some
favourite pieces of this kind would be condemned by an English taste as
weak and meaningless.

We may now give translations of a few poems culled from a large collec-
tion; but it should be premised, that our choice does not always imply
that the poem has the highest degree of. merit: general interest, facility of
translation, and other circumstances, partly direct our selection. Many
very popular ballads are founded on old legends familiar as household
words in German memories, but which would fail to exercise their pecu-
liar charm on English readers. Others are purely imaginary. To these
we prefer tales having some human interest, such as we find in the follow-
ing noble ballad of ‘Hans Euler.’ The writer, J. G. Seidl, is a native of
Vienna, where he lived, some two or three’ years ago, as keeper of the
Cabinet of Coins and Antiquities :—

HANS EULER.

t Ha! listen, Martha! heard you not that knocking at the door?
Open, and call the pilgrim in, that he may share our store ;

` Ha! "tis a soldier. Welcome, sir! partake our homely fare ;
Our wine and bread are good ; thank (iod! we have enough to spare !’

tI want no food; I want no wine!’ the stranger sternly said ;
* Hans Euler, I have come to pay my duty to the dead :

I had a well-loved brother once, a brother whom you slew ;
The threat I uttered when he fell, I come to prove it true !’

v

Waid Euler then, ‘ Your brother fell in fair and opèn fight,

“And, when I struck, my arm was raised to guard my country’s right ;
But if you must revenge his death—-this is no place for strife—
Walk out with me. Farewell awhile, my true and loving wife !’

So saying, Enler took his sword, and o’er the hilly road,

Which ended on a rocky mount, he onward boldly strode.
Without a word, the stranger followed Euler on the way ;
And now the night was vanishing before the break of day.

And as they walked on silently, the sun was rising higher,
Till all the mountain-ridges green were touched with golden fire ;
Soon as they reached the chosen place, the night-mist o’er.them curled,
And there, spréad out below them, lay the glorious Alpine world ;
20

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

With hamlets in the valleys, flocks and herds upon the hills,
Green hollows, rocky chasms deep, bright waterfalls and rills ;
And, deeply felt, although unseen, the true pervading soul,
‘The spirit of old Switzerland was breathing from the whole.

The stranger stood and sternly gazed—his sword was in his hand—
While Euler pointed down upon his well-loved Fatherland ;

‘It is for that I’ve fought,’ said he; ‘for that dear land I’ve bled,
And, when he would have hurt that land, 1 smote thy brother dead.

‘ And now that death must be revenged, and this must be the place.’
But here the stranger dropt his sword, and looked in Euler’s faee :
Said he, ‘1 do forgive thee—it was done for fatherland—

And now, if thou canst pardon me, brave Euler, here’s my hand !’

This, though it may be injurcd in our translation, seems to us a very
favourable specimen of the romantic ballad, and far preferable to others
telling of strange sprites rising from waters, or dwelling in the forests, or of
the ‘nymph of the glacier falling in love with the Alpine shepherd-boy.’
There is a national taste, founded on local traditions and associations,
which give a charm to many legends. Some of the legends of Germany
are suited to this local or national taste ; while others, like the short ballad
which follows, have a true universal interest.

The tale of ‘Count Eberhard’ of Wiirtemberg, who boasted that he
could safely fall asleep in his own forests in a time when other nobles
lived in enmity with their dependents, has been versified, if we remember
well, by several hands. ‘The following graphic version is by Zimmer-
mann :—

COUNT EBERIIARD.

Four counts together sat to dine, * And there I dreamed that I was dead,
And when the feast was done, And funeral lamps were shining
Each, pushing round the rosy wine, With solemn lustre round my head,
To praise his land begun. Within a vault reclining.
The Margrave talked of healthful ‘And men and women stood beside
springs, My cold, sepulchral bed ;
Another praised his vines; And, shedding many tears, they
Bohemia spoke of precious things cried,
In many darksome inines. “ Count Eberhard is dead!”
Couni Eberhard sat silent there— € A tear upon my face fell down,
‘Now, Wiirtemberg, begin ! And, waking with a start,
There must be something good and fair, I found my head was resting on
Your pleasant country in P A Wiirtembergian heart!
‘In healthful springs and purple wine,’ ‘A woodman, ’mid'the forest-shade,
Count Eberhard replied ; Had found me in my rest, |
‘In costly gems and gold to shine, Iad lifted up my head, and laid
I cannot match your pride. It softly on his breast !’
‘ But you shall hear a simple tale :— The princes sat, and wondering heard,
One night I lost my way Then said; as closed the story,
Within a wood, along a vale, ‘ Long live the good Count Enerhard—
And down to sleep I lay. ; His people’s love his glory!’

al

CIHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

If we have omitted to notice at length the ballads of Uhland, it is not’
because we are insensible to their merits. Several of them have been
fairly translated into English ; and as the faithful version ef such poems is
certainly no easy task, we will not attempt to mend what has been well
done. It will be better to introduce a few pieces by writers less celebrated
than Uhland. A few years ago we heard loud praise and severe censure
bestowed on a young poct, Ferdinand Freiligrath, who since then has
lived in London as correspondent of a foreign mercantile house. On the
same day we read in an English review the praise of Freiligrath, as one ot
the greatest modern poets; and in a German review a bitter article,
deriding the sudden reputation of the new poet, and representing him as
little more than a writer of pompous and affected phraseology. , Guessing
that the truth might lie somewhere between these extremes, we read the
poems in question, aud were pleased to find that, among many poems
merely descriptive of foreign scenery, and marked by a tone of exaggera-
tion, there were others, such as the lines on ‘German Emigrants,’ the
‘Pictured Bible,’ and the poem quoted below, which evinced true poctical
genius. As a favourable specimen of Freiligrath’s style, we quote the

DEATH OF TIIE EMIGRANT LEADER.

‘In the fog the sails are dripping,
Mist lies thickly o’er the bay.

On the masts suspend the lanterns—
Sca and sky are leaden-gray.

Deadly weather! sickness breathing—
Come to prayers with covered head,
Women, come and bring your children—

In the cabin see the dead.’

And the German p@asant-people,
With the Boston seaman, go
Down the ladder, bow their heads
In the cabin small and low:
There the pilgrims, new homes seeking,
Sailing o’er the western sea,
Find, in burial-garinents lying,
The leader of their company.

He had built of German firs
The raft which all their chattels bore
Along the Neckar to the Rhine,
And down the Rhine to the seashore.
The old man, with a heavy heart,
Torn loose from his paternal ground,
Had said to them, *‘ We must depart—
Another country must be found :

“In the west our day is breaking—
Westward lies our morning-red—
Let us raise our log-huts yonder
Where freedom lives within a shed.
Let us sow our sweat-drops yonder
Where they will not idly sleep—
Yonder let us turn the clods
Where he who ploughs may dare to reap !

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

eTo the old, unbroken forest,

Let us all our households bear,
Plant them ’mid the wide savannas—
I will be your patriarch there.
From our land, like those old shepherds,
Famed in Bible-story, going,
Let our guiding, fiery pillar,
Be the light for ever glowing.

‘In that constant light confiding,

Į will lead you to your rest: ’
Happy, for my children secing

New homes rising in the West.
Children, *tis fur you I travel—

(How: would give these limbs a grave)
Tis for you I bind my girdle,

And nerve my heart to cross the ware.

‘Up! away ! your Goshen leaving,
Like the mer of olden day,’

Ah, he nly saw, like Moses,
Canaan’s pastures far away !

Qn the sea the old man died—
Jie and all his wishes rest :

Nor success nor disappointment
More shall move his quict breast !

Now the men without a leader
Come to give him to the deep:
Children hide themselves in teror,
W hile their mothers come to weep.
And the men, with earnest faces,
Gaze upon the foreign shore,
Where the patriarch, old and saintly,
Guides their pRigrimage no more.

‘In the fog the sails are dripping,
Sleeps the bay in unsty gloom.

Breathe a prayer—the ropes are slipping—
Give hiin to his watery tomb.’

Tears are flowing, waves are plashing,
Sea-birds scream above the dead.

For fifty years he ploughed the ground ;

rut neath the billows rests his head !

Asa specimen of Freiligrath’s more melodious versification, we give the
‘Pictured Bible,’ a remembrance of childhood. The last verse appears to
uae
us to be full of gentine pathos :—

THE PICTURED BIBLE.

Friend of my early days, Of foreign zones the portals
Thou old, brown, folio tome, Thy magic keys unfolding—
Oft opened with amaze. In thee, as in a mirror,
Within my childhood’s home ; The eastern lands beholding,
Thy many-pictured pages, I saw be-ore me spreading
Beheld with glad surprise, A world of new delight—
Would lure me from my playmates Palms, deserts, camels, shopherds,

To Oriental skies.

And tents of snowy white.
23

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

J found in thee, for friends, ‘The borders of grotesque,
The wise and valiant men With figures strange and wild,
Of Israel, whose heroie deeds I see their subtle tracery,
Are writ with holy pen ; Admiring, às a child. ;
And dark-brown Jewish maidens The flowers and branches cunningly
With festive dance and song, Round every picture twined,
Or fairly dressed for bridal, In every curious leaf and bloom
Thy pictured leaves among. Some meaning for the mind !
The old life patriarchal And my mother, as she taught me,
Did beautifully shine When questioning, 1 came,
With angels hovering over Tells every picture’s story,
The good old men divine. Gives every place its name,
Their long, long pilgrimages Fills with old songs and sayings
I traced through all the way, My memory all the while-—
While on the stool before me My father sits beside us
Thy pages open lay. And listens with a smile.
I feel as if thy covers Oh childhood ! lost for ever !
Were opened for me now, Gone like a vision by—
Again to see thy wonders, The pictured Bible’s splendour,
I bend my eager brow ; The young, believing eye;
Again behold thy pictures, The father and the mother,
With rapt and earnest gaze, The still, contented mind,
In fresh and shining colours, The love and joy of childhood—
» Asin my early days. All, all are left behind !

The following simple but pathetic little romance, by a poet named
Reichenau, has an interest like that of the ‘ Emigrant-Leader.’ The style
of the original is so melodious that it might well be set to music as a glec
for four voices :- —

Sun,

Father,

Daughter.
Mother.

S.
F.

THE BANISHED LITHUANIANS.

Why, oh my father, must you break

From the green ash this sturdy stake ?

Tis to prop my worn limbs on our long, long way—
We must leave our dear land at the break of day !

And, mother, why must you put away

My cap and frock and boddice gay ?

My daughter, here we no more must stay—

We must leave our dear home in the morning gray !

In yon new land are the meadows green ?

Are the trout in the clear, swift rivers seen ?
My boy, you must rove in the fields no meg
Nor throw out your line from the pebbled shore.

. In yon new lani are the flax-fields blue?

Will the roses shine in the morning dew ?

. Such joys, oh my daughter, no more must he ours ;

We must say farewell to the fields and flowers!

. Then, father, how long sadly must we roam ?

Ah, when shall we once more come to our home?

. And, mother, when may we return and sec
_ Our flax-field and garden, so dear to me? ,

24

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY. .

All. Wheu backward the river Niemen flows—
When on the salt sea blooms the rose—-
When fruit on the barren rocks we find—
Or, when our rulers are just and kind!

The above simple verses copfirm the opinion given by a German critic,
that the only way in which the poet can serve the people is by seizing on
the poctical features of real life. Young poets recently have, written
directly on social and political topics, but have geuerally fallen into mere
declamation, and degraded the character of poetry, which, when true, is
always sure to be useful, though indirectly. Burns's familiar tale of the
‘Twa Dogs’ has perhaps done more to awaken kindly feelings toward the
poor than any essay or sermon written formally for that purpose.

The above have been given as specimens of the ballad having connectio
with the interests of real life. We must pass over very briefly a number
of romances founded on supernatural legends. Some of the ballads of
Ludwig Uhland, one of the best modern poets, have this character. The
water-nymph, the erl-king, the wood-uymph, Lorelei, and many . other
creatures of German fiction, play their parts in these romances. But,
as a superior specimen of the imaginative ballad, we may select one by
Joseph Matzerath, a poct of whom we only know that a short time ago he
was living at Cologne. These verses, though vague, present to us a fine
ideal; and the scenery, though slightly touched, is grand :—

TUE KING OF THE SEVEN HILLS,
In ancient times, beside the Rhine, a king set on his throne,
And all his peuple called him ‘ goud ’—no other name is known.

Seven hills and seven old castles marked the land bencath his sway.
His children all were beautiful and cheerful as the day.

Oft, clad in simple garments, he travelled through the land,
And to the poorest subject there he gave a friendly hand.

Now when this good old king believed his latest hour was nigh,
He bade his servants bear hiin to a neighbouring mountain high:

Below he saw the pleasant fields in cloudless sunlight shine,
While through the valleys, brightly green, flowed peacefully the Rhine ;

Aud pastures, gaily decked with flowers, extended far away ;
While round t gm stood the mighty hills in darkly-blue array ;

ara
And on the hills along the Rhine seven noble. castles frown,
Stern guardians! on their charge below for ever looking down,

Long gazed the king upon that land ; his eyes with tears o’erfiow—
He cries, ‘ My own loved country! I must bless thee ere 1 go !—

‘Oh fairest of all rivers! my own beloved Rhine!
How beauteous are the pastures all that on thy rnargin shine.

‘To leave thee, oh my land! wakes my bosom’s atest sigh,
Let me spend my breath in blessing thee, and so, contented, die.
25

u”

CHAMBERS’S PAPRES FOR THE PEOPLE. *

t My good and loving people all! my land! farewell for ever!
May sorrow and oppression come within your borders never!

© May people, land, and river all, in sure protection lie
For ever ’neath the guardianship of the Almighty’s eye.’

Soon as the blessing was pronounced, the good old king was dead,
And the halo of the setting sun shone all around his head.

That king was always called ‘the good’—no other name is known ;
But his blessing still is resting on the laud he called his own.

Other ballads are rather sentimental than narrative, and give us traits of
individual character and feeling. As a brief specimen of this class, the
following verses by Robert Reinick, who is a painter as well as a poet,
may be given :—

THE RETURN.
When one returns, with hopeful tread, ‘And here,’ T whispered, ‘kneels in prayer

From travel to his place of birth, That maiden, and for me she prays ;’
And finds his dearest maiden dcad-— I moveu with silent footstep there,

That is the greatest wo on earth! And hardly dared around to gaze.
One bright and early Sabbath-day, Then suddenly (T did not know

1 came into my native place ; Why seem’d the church so sad and
Long had I carried, far away, dim)

The memory of one lovely face, The choir began, with voices low,

To sing an old funereal hymn.
I stepped into the church to see
The spot where first that face I saw; Amid the mourners on I press’d,
The organ’s solemn harmony And to the burial-chanccl came :
Pour’d thrilling tones of love and! There stood the bier, with roses dress’d,
And on the coffin was her name/

In the following short poem by Franz Gaudy, who died in 1840, the
vein of sentiment is truly German :—

"4 $ .
a Wiw © MURIC FOR THE DYING.
In the darkly-curtained @harsber, | But hark! some blithe companions
Fi lamp’s fame glimmers low, Come, singing, down the street :
Ang throws a trembling lustre The tones come nearer, nearer,
On thé old man’s pallid brow. In concord full and sweet.
His children stand together The old man lifts his eyelids ;
In silence round his bed, Ilis soul is dégply stirr’d—
And strive to dry their tears, He listens to the music,
But more will still be shed. And catches every word.
They press each other’s hand, € My son’s songs they are singing !
Their anguish to conceal ; Says he, as life’s strings sever ;
‘No human words can tell Then down he lays his head,
. How sorrowful they feel! And shuts his eyes for ever.

,_ We should be pleascd to find among these ballads a greater number

descriptive of national life and manners; hut in this style of writing many

German poets are remarkably deficient. Platen, for instance, who was one
gms

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

of the greatest masters of poetical diction, devoted nearly all his poems to
forcign topics. His best productions are his odes and sonnets, which are
very chaste and beautiful in style. From his miscellaneous verses we may
cull the following ballad on an incident in Oriental history :—

HARMOSAN,

The throne of the Sassanides was shatte1’d on the ground,

The Moslem hand thy hoard of wealth, O Ctesiphon, had found,
When Omar to the Oxus came, through many a bloody day,
And Jesdegerd, the Persian king, among the corpses lay.

And as the Arabian caliph to count the spoil began,

Before him came a satrap, bound—his name was Harmosan:

The last was he to quit the ficld, where many fell in vain,

Or yield his sword; but now his hands were fastened with a chain.

Then Omar darkly frowned on him, and thus the victor said:—

€ Know you how crinson is the hand that faithful blood hath shed?’
* My doom awaits your pleasure now—the power is on your side—
A victor’s word is always right!*—so JTarmason replied.

t I have but one request to make, whatever fate be mine—

For these three days I have not drunk—bring me a cup of wine!’
Then Omar nodded, and his slave» brought presently the cup,
But, fearing fraud, suspiciously the captive held it up.

€ Why drink you not? the Mussulinan will ne ev deceive a guest:

You shall not die till you have drunk that wine--"lis of the best,’
The Persian seized the cup at once, and cast a smile around,

Then dash’d the goblet down—the wine ran streaming v’er the ground,

As Omar’s chieftains saw the trick, they drew with savage frown,
Out from their sheaths the scimitars to cut the Persian down;
But Omar cried—‘ So let him hve! Faithful, put up the sword !
If aught on earth is holy still, it is a hero’s word!’

bd
F

Many of the short poems classed among romances and ballads are only
remarkable for the melody and force of language with which they relate
some tale or anecdote. Such is the character of the following lines by
Leitner, telling the well-known story of our King Canute :-—

KING CANUTE.

On the strand at Southainpton King Canute sat down,
Clad in purple array, and with sceptre and crown--
And the waves are loudly roaring.

At the nod of his brow his vassals all bow,
And he looks, in his pride, o’er the foaming tide,
Where the waves were loudly roaring.

Said he, ‘On my throne, I am ruler alone
Over all the dry ground, far, far all around ? mom
(And the waves are loudly roaring.)

* And now, swelling sea! I will rule over thee;
I will master thy waves—they shall serve me as slaves,
Though blustering now so loudly!’

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

. But a wave, with a roar, threw itself on the shore,
And cast’ its salt spray o'er the monarch’s array,
And curled round his footstool proudly.

Then Canute laid down his sceptre and crown;
For the voice of the tide had astounded his pride,
While the billows were round him roaring;

And he said, f What is man! Let all worship be paid
To Ifim who the sea and the dry land made,
And who ruleth the billows roaring!’

Tt might be supposed that a people so famous for their metaphysical
speculations would make even poetry itself a vehicle for abstract thought ;
but this is not the case with the Germans. They have no contemplative
poet, like our lately-deceased Wordsworth; nor have they received with
any marked favour didactic poetry. like that of Young and Cowper. With
some few exceptions, their didactic verse may be described as very poor.
Among the exceptions we may mention the poems of Leopold Schefer, who
may be styled the poet of German philosophy, as his verses give, in bold
and often very eloquent language, the results of Schelling and Hegel's
systems. Interspersed among such verses we find many ethical lessons,
which are made poetical by the imagery used to illustrate them. The fol-
lowing pieces may serve as specimens of his style :—

A LESSON FROM A TOUNTAIN.

‘What one can never do fur me again,

That 1711 not do for him, "Fo none I owe
What he ne'er did for me, and ne’er can do.’
And thus will you live justly, well and nobly ?
Then first of all, grant not your child a grave;
For sure your child can never bury you!

Follow no friend to his last resting-place;

For he cau never rise to follow you!

Give no poor wandeier a crust of bread,

Lert he should never meet you and return it!
Clothe not the poor till he can so clothe you!
And bind not up ycur house-dog’s broken limb:
He/’ll ne'er return that self-same benefit;

The hound can only baik and keep your door,
The beggar only says, * May God reward you!’
But I say— Whatsoerer thing you do,

None other can do that for you again,

Either that same thing you may never need,
Or if you need it, it may not be found.
Humanity will always be around you;

liear, then, my counsel—hear the word divine:
To every man give that which most he needs,
Do that which be can never do for you!

Thus live you like the spring that gives you water,
And like the grape that sheds for you its blood,
And like the rose that perfume sheds for you,
And like the bread that satisfies your need.

28

GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

THANKSGIVING FOR SORROWS.

To care for others, that they may not suffer
What we have suffered, is divine well-doing—
The noblest vote of thanks for all our sorrows!
And daily thus the good man giveth thanks
‘To God, and also to humanity,

Which hourly is in need of aid and guidance.
And who has not known misery? Dear soul!
Who would not thank God for his sorrows all,
When in their working they become so sweet !
Good for ourselves and for humanity!

"Tis thus the roots of the aloe-tree are bitter,

But cast upon the glowing coals, how sweet,

How lasting and diffusive is their fragrance!
Yea, I have seen a lame and halting child
Prop up most tenderly a broken plant;

And a poor mother, whose own child was burt
Snatch from the flame the children of another.
So, generous man, return thou constant thanks
For all thy griefs to God and tu mankind,

And ending “nief will mahe unendii z joy!

Or, ìf it end not, it will be pue blessing.
While in the trying furnace, thou dost ‘cool,
And if from wo released, and happy, spiead,
Thy happiness all rouna thee. >o doth God.
Suffering 01 happy, man, be always toanktal!

Of recent poctical productions it would not be easy to speak with perfect
fairness. As some interval of space is required. that we may see and judee
wall the proportions of the town in which we dwell, so an inverval of time
seems necessary to form a fair judgment of the works of our contemporaries.
As an instances of this how much better can we now estimate Wordsworth:
than in the time when he was regarded, even by the acute aud excellent
Francis Jeffrey, as a writer of mere puerile verses! The most remarkable
feature in recent German poctry is, perhaps, its tendency to meddle with
political and sucial questions. We allude to the poems of Hoffmann you
Fallersleben and the war-lyrics of Tlerwegh. Hoffmann is a satirist of
cousiderable humour, but has not improved his poetry by devoting it to
politices—the ‘king of Prussia,’ the ‘ Zollvercin” ‘the constitution,’ and
‘German unity, not forgetting that equally dreamy affair, the ‘ German
fleet :’ these may b. good things to fill newspapers, but are very dry and
dreary topics {or poetry. ITerwegh is a very terrible poet. For every
evil he has one remedy—the sword; and he seems to have forgotten that
this nostrum has been tried frequently, but generally with such bad effout
i to make wise men ask for another mode of treatment. ‘It is now the
time for hate!’ cries HWerwegh— meaning, we suppose, for party ranco w,
as if that time had not lasted Jong enough. In another lyric he
exclaims-—

‘ Tear the crosses from the earth,
And turn them into swords!’

On this a very cool critic observes, that ‘it would b> a mere waste of time,
as iron crosses are very rare in Germany, while iron in other shapes is
29

CHAMBERS'’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

plentiful enough.’ Another recent poet, Geibel, one who is not smitten
with the war-mania, addresses to Herwegh a poetical remonstrance, from
which we translate one verse :-—

TO GEORGE HERWEGI.

Tike Peter, then, ‘ put up thy sword,’

And close at once you: martial rhymes ;
Or look at Paris now and learn,

Freedom is not the child of crimes!
With earnest minds and patient labour

The world’s trw battle must be fought;
Better than musket, pike, and sabre,

The spirit’s power— the power of thought !

The name of Gcibel affords an instance of the uncertainty of a great
part of contemporary criticism. We have read several of Geibel’s poems,
and have found in them no signs of great creative genius, but melody of
language and poetical taste; vet an able German critice gives the following
contemptuous estimate of this young poet, who happens to enjoy a sinall
pension from the king of Prussia:—‘The task of appreciating Derr
Gcibel’s value as a poet is very easy, as he is annually credited by the
state tu the extent of 300 dollars This, at the rate of three and a half
per cent., makes the nominal capital value of Herr G. not less than 5571
dollars, 12 groschen, and 10? pfennige —a very high estimate of a young
poet in these times!’ Surely Jeremy Bentham himself could not have
desired a more utilitarian style of poetical criticism than this! We append
a translation of me of Emanuel Geibel’s poems : —

SPRING’S RLVELATION.

Come to the forests, sceptics, leave your poring,

List to its thousand voices, all combining ;

See its live columns, twined with roses, soaring,

See its bright roof grecn boughs with boughs entwining.

Like incense, perfuines from all flowers abounding,
Like golden tapers see the sunbeams guise: ;

And ‘jubilate’ to the heavens are sounding
Voices from birds, gieen boughs, and flowing river.

And heaven itself, in love, is lowly bowing

To fold the earth, its bude, in dalliance new;
All creatures thrill, with love’s fire irly glowing,
Your hearts, however cold, must tremble too!

Now say you ‘ Nay, ’tis all a hollow show,

A mere machine, and nothing more we trace;’
Now say ‘*Tis nought’ to all love’s overflow,
And from your lips dash off the cup of grace!

In vain —you cannot—if you did the wrong,
Creation’s voice would hush your wretched nay ;
Unheard amid the thousand-voiced song

Of all glad creatures loudly uttering—yea!

‘GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.

` /

The preceding remarks on Herwegh, and other recent writers of political
verses, by no means imply that poetry must be confined to imagination,
nd must have no relation to the interests of real life. We would rather
urge that a poetry of true living interest is wanting in our day; but it
must treat the questions of practical life in a truly poetical, and not a
mere declamatory style. With this condition we would welcome the
lowliest verses of true human interest rather than more ambitious poems
of a purely imaginative cast. No poetry can long delight which is alto-
gcther alien to our real life. The poet may transcend our real life, he may
exalt it by imagination, but he must not leave it behind him. -And in
our day, when the life-breath of an elevating, philanthropic poetry ought
to be infused throughout our social institutions, pervading the dwellings
of the poor, and sanctifying the low by bringing it into communion with
the lofty; when men are waiting to know themselves that they may fulfil
their mission upon earth; when they feel

t How small of all the ills which hearts endure,
That part which kings or laws can cause or cures?

when we peculiarly need a sincere union between our literature and our
life; when we want books that we may take to ourselves as bosom-friends
—hooks that we may not ouly read, but believe and love; at such a time,
the poet who would treat us with anothir epic about Prince Arthur, or
any similar composition, would he very much like the comforters of
Job, who attempted to cure his sorrows by studied orations, very subline,
hut very unseasonable.

It is a common opinion among literary men in Germany, that the pre-
sent age is marked with a decline of poetry ; and some speak even of its
extinction. Gervinus, a well-known critic. advises all his poetical young
friends to shun verses, and devote themselves to practical life. We do
not sec clearly why poetry and real life should be separated. It is true
that the age for long poems, for reading verses by the thousand, seems
19 have passed away, and the present day, vexed with its political and
sdvial questions, is certainly not favourable to that studious and exclusive
devotion to poetry which we have scen in other times; but let us reform
the world as we will, external changes or amended realitics will never
make us independent cf imaginative pleasures. After all that is done for
us abroad, we shall be pvor and barren unless we can say with the writer
of the fine old song—

‘ My mind to me a kingdom is !?
%

- But it would be idle to discuss such a question as the extinction of poetry:
it will take place in that time, perhaps, when, as Jean Paul ‘prophesies,
all men (and of course all women) will be authors, and newspapers wil: be
edited at the North Pole. In short, so far as poctry is an essential part
of our mental nature, it will endure. Many artificial kinds will vanish,
long epics made to measure, and other heavy picces of verse, contaming
some nine parts of dry mechanism for every one of inspiration, will pro-
bably pass away and be forgotten; but the true soarg, the romantic ballad,
the vividly-told story in verse, will continue to charm the future gene-
3]

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

vations ; sorrows and joys, hopes and memories, will demand poetic utter-
ance; nature will claim her tribute of praise; and poets will doubtles

hail the flowers of spring when the grandchildren of the present age wil
have passed away. So says Count Auersperg, a modern Austrian poet,
whose verses on this topic form here a suitable conclusion :—

THE LAST POULT.

€ When will be poets weary,
And throw their harps away?

When will be sung and ended
The oft-repeated lay?’

As long as the sun’s chariot
Rolls in the heavenly blue,
As long as human faces
Are gladdened with the view;

Long us the sky's loud thunder
Is echoed from the hill,

And, touched with dread and won-

der, ,
A human heart can thrill;

And while, through melting tem-

peat,
The rainbow spans the air,
And gladdened human bosoms
Can hail the token fair;

And long as night the ether
With stars and planets sows,

And man can read the meaning
That in golden letters glows;

As long as shines the moon
Upon our nightly rest,

And the forest waves its brarches
Above the weary breast;

As long as blooms the spring
And while the roses blow,

While smiles can dimple cheeks,
And eyes with joy o’erflow;

And while the cypress dark,

Oer the grave its head can shake,
And while an eye can weep,

And while a heart can break;

So long on earth shall live
‘True poesy divine,

And make our earthly life
In heavenly volours shine,

And singing, all alone,
The last of living men,
Upon earth’s garden green,

Shall be a poet then.

God holds his fair creation
In his hand, a blooming rose,
Ie smiles on it with pleasure,
And in his smile it glows:

jut when the giant-flower
For ever dies away,
And earth and sun, its blossome,
Like blooms of spring decay;

Then ask the poet—then—
If you live to see the day—
‘When will be sung and ended
The oft-repeated lay ??

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA,

].

Geography of the Deserts—Physical Structure and Leading Features—Vegetable aud Animal
Productions —Copjectures as to the Origin of the Deserts.

HE northern coast of Africa has long been known to the civilised
world, and once formed no unimportant part of its political and
social system. But though Egypt took the lead in science, and Carthage
in commercial entcrprise, yet the progress of civilisation does not appear
to have extended at any time beyond the tracts of land immediately bor-
dering on the Nile and the Mediterranean. A few days’ journey into the
interior placed the traveller on apparently endless plains of shifting sand;
a boundary which arrested the victorious career of Cambyses and Alex-
ander, and which has, an all subsequent ages, baffled every attempt at
colonisation and improvement. Till within the last few ycars, the immense
region which extends from the fertile shores of the Mediterranean to the
country called Soudan, or Nigritia, has becn left a blank or dotted space
on our maps, marked in large letters ‘Sahara, or the Great Desert; as
though nature, departing from her usual diversity of operations, had here
adopted the rule of monotony and uniformity, and had spread in every
direction a sheet of burning sand. The imagination of poets has availed
itself of the silence of geographers, and represented this as a region without
a blade of grass, and traversed by no living thing, except wild beasts of
prey, and “here and there a tribe of savages, ignorant of the primary
wants of individual life which attach man to the soil, as well as of the first
elements of social existence which unite him to his fellow-men.

Travellers from England have from time to time ventured into the
mysterious abyss; and the few who have returned to tell what they saw,
have furnished some interesting particulars concerning the route they pur-
sued, and the people they encountered. ‘Their aim, however, was rather
to get through the Desert than to become acquainted with it, the great
object of curiosity being the Negro country which lies beyond. But since
the French assumed the sovereignty of Algeria in 1830, they have felt,
like all preceding conquerors of this territory, the impossibility of colo-
nising and civilising it, without exercising a corresponding influence on
the adjoining desert; and thus the Sahara itself has become an object

No. 69. ee l

P CHAMBERS’S PAPIERS FOR TILE PEOPLE.

of deep attention. They have laboured assiduously to understand
its resources, the social condition of its tribes, and the relation which
subsists between them and the inhabitants of the surrounding countries.
It must be added, that they have made attempts as futile as unwarrant-
able, to compel the Sahariaus to receive law and civilisation at their hands.
Their utmost success in this respect has been, to obtain a scanty tribute
from some of the Oases ; to plunder and devastate others whose inhabitants
fled before them; and to drive the streams of commerce from their own
province to the neighbouring states of Morocco and Tripoli. Meanwhile,
a vast body of information has been collected, chiefly with reference to
the northern and western parts of Sahara; while our own countryman, Mr
Richardson, who penctrated the Desert farther towards the cast in the
year 1846, has made us acquainted with a portion which the French could
know only by hearsay. Recent discoveries in Central Africa have thrown
new interest around the descrts which form its northern botndary; and
the more so, as it is the present opinion that the most eligible route to
Nigritia is across the wastes of nahara from the Mediterranean shores,
rather than through the pestilential forests and savage populations which
are found between the Scnegal aud the Niger.

The desert region which we propose now to describe is bounded on the
north by the states of Barbary, ou the west by the Atlantic Ocean, on the
south by Soudan, or Nigritia, and the river Senegal, and on the east by
Egypt and Nubia. Adopting the ancient classical figure, we should call
this vast expanse an occan, dividing the continent of the black race from
the abodes of white mvn: as such, it is traversed by powerful ficets, in-
fested with darin, ficebouters, and studded here and there with sin zle
islands or numerous archiprlagoes. It is difficult to assign its precise limits
to the north, on account of the Interruptions to which it is subject in that
direction. Jt has been usual to cousider the Great Sahara as reaching from
about the 16th tu the 29th parallels, and to call by various names— as the
Little Descrt, the Desert of Anghad, the Desert of Shott, &c.—those gulfs
of the sandy occan which project farther north; while the region of nume-
rous oases, which form the northern skirting of the Sahara, have been
denominated Beled-el-Jerid, or the Date-Country.

The French have taken great pains to distinguish the last-named region,
with its numerous, intelligent, and industrious population, from what they
call the Central Desert, or Falat. Nay, they have made up their-minds that,
in consequence of its commercial dependence on the Tell for some of tlic
first necessaries of life, it cannot possibly exist under a separate régime. In
the maps, therefore, which were published by order of the government in
1844, Algeria is made to comprise the whole tract of country southward to
the 32d degrce of north latitude in the west, and about the 34th degree at
the eastern extremity. At the same time, these geographers have been
considerate cnough to suppose that their neighbours would like a slice as
well ag themselves; and they have allotted to the other Barbary states
respectively all the oases which lie scattered on their southern frontiers.
Thus have the Little Desert and the Date-Country completely disappearcd ;
having become the Sakara Marocain, Sahara Algerien, and Sahara Tuni-
sin. The partition and appropriation have been made prospectively ou

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.

paper, than which nothing is more easy—our friends in France having
never, in all probability, seen the recipe of our shrewd couutrywoman,
Meg Dods, commencing with ‘ First catch the hare.’ Jt is certainly: con-
venient to have a general name forgthese comparatively fertile portions
of the Desert. The term Date-Country is in many respects ineligible,
as it conveys the idea of great fertility; and.by no means suggests the’
fact that it is, as a whole, a desert region, absolutely barren and unin-
habitable in many places, though abounding towards the east in the fertile
spots called oases, which are gencrally, but not universally, congenial to
the date. The fact is, that this fruit attains its greatest perfection in some
of those verdant spots which are found in the very heart of the Central
Desert; and were it only on this ground, the appellation Date-Country is
nnsuitable for distinguishing the region of numerous oases in the north
from the more thinly-sown portion in the centre. We may therefore so
far adopt the French nomenclature, as to call this interesting, and now
pretty well-known country, ‘the Northern Sahara,’ in contradistinction to
the Central, which it might confuse the English reader to denominate the
Falat, as the term Sahara is retained in our best maps.”

The inhabitants of the Desert know no other division of their country
than that of tribes and oascs—the very names of which were long unknown
in Europe, but are now to some cxtent ascertained and defined. Instead,
however, of burdening the readers memory with a large number of names
which he might find in no map within his reach, and perhaps might never
again meet in the course of his reading, we shall merely point out the
oases Which are inost Importaut from their external relations, and which
we may have occasion afterwards to mention.

Beginning from the west, and proceeding along the northern border, the
irst fertile spots to be noted are El-Harib, important as a resting-place on
the direct route from the city of Morocco to Timbuctoo; and Tafilet, the
capital of the Shereef tribe, and the centre of an extensive commerce with
the negro country, the interior of Morocco, and the Hast. Tafilct is not, a
single oasis, but a cluster; for fertile spots are both few and small west of
the second degree of cast longitude, owing, it is believed, to the circum-
stance that the wind blows from the east nine months in the year, rushing
into a hurricane at certain seasons, and that, in the course of time, it has
accumulated the sand towards the west. Inthe Algerian Sahara, the most
southern oases are F!-Abied-Sidi-Sheik, Wad-Miab, Wad-Reklah, Wad-
Reer, and Wad-Svof,t forming a chain of fertile spots, south of which all is
sterility, and not even a village is to be seen during several days’ journey.
The fertile belt which stretches along the shores of the Mediterranean, and
by the natives called the Tell, is from 50 to 120 miles broad in the pro-
vince of Algiers, but it becomes a very narrow strip in the regency of

* ‘The Sahara,’ says a writer in tho Edinburgh Herew, ‘is now ascortained to
consist of a vast archipelago of oases; cach of them peopled by a tribe of the Moorish
race or its offsets, more civilised, and morc capable of receiving the lessons of civi-
lisation, than the houseless Arabs of the Tcl.” We shall sadly mistake if we under-
stand such a passage as this with respect to the Central Desert of Africa ; whereas
it refers only to that portion which we have been accustomed to call tle Date-
Country, but to which the French have now not only appropriated, but restricted
ihe name Sahara.

+ Better known by their towns, Metili, Gardeai, Tuggurt, and Temacin,

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

Tripoli; and an English traveller remayks here, that the distinction between
Great and Little Deserts is quite fictitious: it is all Sahara, and the sands
reach the very walls of Tripoli. Two great oases, or rather ar chipelagocs,
facilitate the intercourse between thg above -named points and the interior
of Africa: they are Fezzan, of which the capital is Mourzouk, and Twât,
whose chief towns are Ain-salah, Agabli, and Timimoom. The space,
however, between these and the nearest‘of the northern oases is very
formidable, and would be almost impassable if nature had not placed two
resting-places on the two principal routes. El-Golea lies between Algeria
and Twit; Ghadamis * between Tunis and Fezzan. ‘Timbuctoo and
Kashna are the great marts in the negro country with which commercial
relations are maintained in a manner we shall hereafter describe.

The eastern part of the Desert, sometimes distinguished as the Libyan,
offers no points of sinilar interest, except Bilna, the chief town, famous for
its immense salt beds, whence large quantities are annually exported to
Nigritia. But we must not overlook the line of oases which is found
running north and south near the extreme eastern limit of these dreary
wastes. Here are Darfoor, Selimch, the Great and Little Oases of Thebes,
the natron lakes, and the Baha- bela-ma, or dry river. The Creat Oasis is
120 miles long and 4 or 5 broad; the lesser, separated from it by 40 miles
of desert, is similar in form. In the Valley of Nitrium is another beautiful
spot, which was a favourite retreat of Christian monks in the second cen-
tury. Here remain four out of 360 convents, and from them some valuable
manuscripts of ancient date have recently been obtained. Another oasis
in this direction contains splendid ruins, supposed to be those of the famous
temple of Jupiter Ammon.

Returning from the ancient to the modern, from the poetical to the
useful, we remark that the route almost directly south from Ghadamis to
Kashna has, since the adventures of Lyon, Richardson, and others, become
pretty well known, and is ascertained to be a Jine of great commercial
activity, and abounding with towns and villages. Of the former, Ghat F is
celebrated as a market or fair, and Agades as the capital of the Targhee
tribes in this district. Aheer is another important town, as it is on the way ,
from Morocco (by Twat) to Kashna; and also as it maintains commerce
with Bilna, Ghat, and Mourzouk. We know little of the tracts which lie
west of Ahcer, but on the line from Twit to Timbuctoo we find Mabrook,
thrice welcome to the traveller who has met with no water for ten days
before reaching it. ‘Tishet, ‘Toudeni, and Wadan f are generally marked
on modern maps on account of their salt beds, which forma valuable article
of commerce.

The knowledge which we possess of the physical structure of the Desert.
is still very incomplete. We may, however, add some general views of the
nature and aspect of its surface, and notice some of its most remarkable
features. If we begin our examination with the western portion, a journey
along the coast offers nothing but low gandy tracts, broken here and there
by rocky headlands, neither bold nor lofty; the land is not perceived at
sea beyond a very short distance, which is doubtless the principal reason

* woes by French geographers R’Dames.
+ OrKat. aero Or Hoden.

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA. x

of the numerous shipwrecks that have occurred on this inhospitable shore.
Leaving the coast, the shifting sand extends but a few days’ journey at
most, and we arrive at a somewhat elevated plain, which appears very
extensive. It is close, uniform, stony, and arid in the extreme, but here
and there interrupted by a-hollow or large ravine, 150 or 200 feet deep,
whose steeps afford occasional springs of water. That part of the Desert
which lies between El-Harib and Timbuctoo is extremely arid, and desti-
tute of wells, indicating that in this space there must be some point of
culmination, or a -line of rising-ground to separate the waters, for we find
much sand on the route of Caillié; and it is well known that sand and
springs abound chiefly in low grounds, and that it is especially near the
lines that divide the waters that there appear few inducements to bore. A
similar swelling has been remarked between Twit and Tinbuctoo. Ou
leaving Agabli, the nost southern point of the former, the route lies over
sand for a few days, and then occurs a tract of stiff red earth, and the utter
absence of water for cight or ten days. ‘This does not extend far to the
west, for in that direction it is hounded by a sandy waste.

The central part of the Desert seems to be considerably more moun-
tainous than the eastern or western portions of it. Between Algiers and
Twat is-an uninhabitable desert of sand without water, separated by a
hilly district from another similarly dreary waste between Algeria and
Ghadamis. The country which lies between Twat and Ghat is all hilly,
but its particular topography is quite unknown, on account of the deadly
enmity which we shall afterwards have occasion to notice as existing
between the populations whose territories it scparates, and which renders
its exploration perilous in the extreme. The Targhee country abounds in
hills and stony plains. Mr Richardson describes himself as travelling six
days southward from Ghadamis without mecting fifty yards of sand; the
route lay over hard-baked earth and huge blocks of stone, but chiefly beds
of very small pebbles. Afterwards he met sand in abundancg—masses of
it quite loose, and 400 feet high. ‘Towards Ghat it was heap upon heap,
pile upon pile, every succeeding feature of the landscape appearing more
hideous than tlic former, and the whole presenting ‘a mass of blank exist-
ence, having no apparent object but to terrify the hapless traveller, who,
with his faithful camel, pursues his weary way through the waste.’ The
country about Ghat is intersecied in every direction with dark gloomy moun-
tains. Here, it is said, that spirits of the air live in harmonious alliance
with the tribes of the Desert, in consequence of a kind of Magna Charta, a
treaty offensive and defensive, made betwecn them ages ago. The jenoum
(demons or genii) who had chosen to build their palaces in these mountains,
offered their friendship and protection to the sons of men, on condition of
being allowed io remain unmolested, promising especially to endue their
human allies with vision and tact, during the hours of darkness, to surprise
and overcome thcir enemics. And the Targhee fathers alone of mortals
vowed them eternal and inviolable friendship on these conditions, swearing
that they never would employ Maraboot, holy Koran, or any other means,
to dislodge them from the black turrct-shaped hills. - The treaty has never `
been violated; the demons dwell unmolested ir their lofty castles; and
many an unfortunate traveller or hapless negro fa:nily witnesses the fearful
efficacy of the powers which they have-confezred upon the Touarik.

| 5

CHAMBERS S PAPERS FOR TIHE PEOPLE.

Standing out conspicuously among the private dwellings of the demons is
an immense rock: this-is their council-hall; and hero, from thousands of
miles round, do the spirits of the air meet to deliberate on the affairs of
their social polity. Here, too, are their public treasuries—caverns full of
gold, silver, and diamonds—all, we presume, of a spiritual nature, like
their possessors, or we doubt if they would remain inviolable. Nor must
we omit to mention a rocking or logging-stone, about fifty feet high, and
exceedingly like our own in Cornwall. It was the spot on which a wealthy
Maraboot of great sanctity met a violent death. ‘The murderer, seized
with remorse for his deed of blood. entreated the genii to cover up the
body from sight, as he had not courage himself to bury it. They listened
to his prayer, and detached this piece of rock from their great palace to
form a sepulchral stone; and here it has rested, occasionally rocking, say
the people, to this day. The murderer then begged that the genii woud
accept some of the spoil in tuken of his gratitude; but they refused to
touch the bloodstained gold, and pelted the wretch to death.

The topography of Fezzan presents a mixture of mountains and plains;
and the soil is sterile enough except iu the oases, which are said to be
about one hundred in number. The most remarkable feature of this part
of Sahara is the chain which separates it from Tripoli, and which runs from
east-south-east to west-north-west, like the coast from Benghazi to Khabs.
The whole country south of Fezzan consists likewise of hills and stony
plains, sandy tracts being met with only here and there. A long range of
black basaltic mountains forms the western boundary of the Tiboo country
or Libyan Desert, where the continent shelves down towards the Mediter-
ranean in a series of sandy or gravelly terraces, divided by low rocky
ridges. This shelving country is cut transversely by the deep furrow in
which is the Jong line of oases to which we have adverted as of ancient
classic celebrity. A hidcous flinty plain, several days’ journey across, Hes
between it and the parallel valley of the Nile, which forms the eastern
boundary of the great Deserts of Africa.

lt appears thus, that insulated hills, or groups of them, generally or
naked sandstone or granite, are by no means uncommon throughout the
Sahara, where they appear like islands in the vast expanse. T he stony
plains also are somewhat elevated, as are those of stiff clay; the sandy
tracts lie lower; and deeper still are the ravines and basins which cou-
stitute the most peculiar and interesting features of the Saharian landscape.
The Desert boasts of no permancnt river; but the winter rains give rise to
temporary streams, which fill these hollows, and then sink to some unknown
depth in the sand, or evaporate in the scorching heat of the summer sun.
Quad or Wady is the term used to designate “the channels of these tem-
porary streams, which sometimes acquire, on account of the rapidity of
their fall, a velocity which uproots trees and spreads desolation everywhere
in its course. This is especially the case in the northern oases. At
that of Mzab, for instance, when the sky darkens towards the north, a
number of horsemen set out in that direction, and station themselves at
regular distances of the highest points of land. If the torrent appears,
the farthest of them fires a gun; the telegraphic signal is repeated from
post to post, and reaches the town in a few minutes. The inhabitants run
eee to the gardens, to awake the men who may be sleeping there,

TIIE DESERTS OF AFRICA.

and in haste they carry away every object of value that might become the
prey of the devastating flood. Présently a dreadful noise announces the
irruption of the torrent; the soil of the gardens disappears beneath the
water ; and the Saharian city seems transported, as if by magic, to the banks
of a broad and rapid river, whence arise, like little isles of verdure, innu-
merable heads of palm-trecs—an ephemeral ornament, which disappears i ina
few days.

Some of the basins are very extensivo, and contain beds of salt consi-
derable enough to be worked: such are the famous Traza, Toudeni, and
Tishet. In latitude, abont 34 degrees north, aud’ nearly on the meridian
of London, are two large basins, called Shoit, situated in a frightful desert,
and divided from each other by an isthmus from 25 to 30 miles broad.
They present a very singular formation, which would open an interesting
field of geological inquiry. The castern hasin is about 120 miles long,
and the western about 85, the mean breadth of each being about 6 miles.
These basins exhibit a fall of the earth from 35 to 60 feet deep, nearly
vertical, and so perfectly clean and sinooth that they appear as if wrought
out with a chisel. Dr Jacquot, who examined them minutely in 1847,
asserts that they could not have been produced by any gradual action of
water; that they are evidently cra‘éres de soulèvement, and bear the appear-
ance of having been torn open bv the convulsion which upheaved the
Atlas, their greater axis being parallel to that chain, like most of the
accidents of the Northern Sahara. Several pluvial streams flow into these
basins, and various small plants are found in them; but they become per-
fectly dry in stmmmer. ‘The local tradition of the origin of the Shott i is,
that at a remote period of antiquity, the Saharians, jealous of the fine
sheet of water which forms the boundary of the Tell, resolved to have a
sea of thcir own. With immense labour thev excavated the two basins,
and then the question was how to get them filed. A numerous caravan
was equipped for the shores of the Mediterranean, with skins to bring
water for their artificial sca. Allah, incensed at their presumptuous -en-
terprise, destroycd them all by the way, and let louse a fearful tempest
on the splendid city which they had built for a port on the sea which
they contemplated. The ravages of time have effaced the last ves-
tiges of the unfortunate city; but the basins of the Shott, long, dreary,
sterile craters, remain a witness of the power of God and the vanity of
man. If this explanation of the origin of the Shott affords little satis-
faction to the geologist, it is fraught with interest to the lover of Scripture
truth, who finds here, as in almost every country under heaven, a tradi-
tionary record, however imperfect, of the events which took place at
Babel.

Many of the depressions of the Sahara, whether in the form of wads or
basins, enjoy a constant supply of water by means of natural or artificial
wells, and have consequently been planted and inhabited: these are the
oases of the Desert; not to the eye of the geologist like islands which rise
above the surrounding expanse, but hollows Affording to animal and vege-
table life not only the vivifying moisture, but the no Jess needful shelter
from the storms of the Desert. ‘These verdant spots, which are often
hundreds of miles apart, present considerable encouragement to the labours
of the husbandman, and are in general most favourable to the cultivation

CILAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

of the date-palm and other fruit trees. Onions, with various herbs and
vegetables, also find a congenial soil; but grain does not appear to yield
abundant crops. The wide wastes abroad furnish for the most part a
scanty supply of coarse grass ang small shrubs, serving as pasturage for
the cattle of many a nomade tribe; but there are also extensive tracts
where not a morsel of verdure is to be seen. Nothing can exceed the
desolation of these regions: where there is no vegetable there can of
course be no animal life; day after day the traveller wends his way
without seeing bird, beast, or insect; no sound, no stir, breaks the dread-
ful silence; the dry heated air is like the breath of a furnace, and the
setting sun like a volcanic fire. The desert plains that are much exposed
to storms present an equally terrific scene, but somewhat different: the
sand is blown into clouds that fill the atmosphere, darken the sun at noon-
day, and almost suffocate the traveller. Now the whirlwinds form it into
columns; and one of the most magnificent and appalling sights in nature is
presented. ‘In the vast expanse of desert,’ says Bruce, ‘we saw towards
the north a number of prodigious pillars of sand at various distances, some-
times moving with great velocity, sometimes stalking on,with majestic
slowness. At intervals we thought they were coming in a very few
minutes to overwhelm us, and small quantities of sand did actually reach
us more than once: again they would retreat so as to be almost out of
sight, their tops reaching to the very clouds; then the summits often
separated from the bodics, and these once disjoined, dispersed in air,
and did not appear more; sometimes they were broken in the middle,
as if struck with large cannon-shot. At noon they began to advance
with considerable swiftness upon us, the wind being very strong at north.
Eleven ranged alongside of us about the distance of three miles; the
greatest diameter of the largest appeared to me as if it would measure ten
feet. They retired from us with a wind at south-cast, leaving an impres-
sion on my mind to which I can give no name, though surely ond ingredient
in it was fear, with a considerable deal of wonder and astonishment. It
was in Vain to think of fleeing; the swiftest horse could be of no use to
carry us out of the danger, and the full conviction of this rivetted me to
the spot.’ Another traveller had an opportunity of seeing one of these
pillars crossing the River Gambia from the Great Desert. ‘It passed,’ he
says, ‘within eightecn or twenty fathoms of the stern of the vessel, and
seemed to be about 250 feet in height; its heat was sensibly felt at the
distance of 100 feet, and it left a strong smell, more like that of saltpetre
than sulphur, which remained a long time.’

Downs or sandhills form a prominent and remarkable feature of the
Saharian landscape. They are rounded elevations, smooth as the cupola
of polished marble, sterile as the rock of naked granite, and of so uniform
a colour that they never appear to blend or confuse with surrounding

objects. »jJuring the day, they wéar the sombre hue of a landscape at
sunset ‘by moonlight one would think them phosphorescent, from

the brighthess of the light #Parkling in the bosom of the shadows. In

some situations, the sandhills seem to be at the mercy of the wind, travel-

ling at its bidding, and settling here or there to rise and wander forth

agin. Others seem to have found a permanent resting-place ; and this is

generally, if not always, in the shelter of a mountain-chain. Yet strage
8

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.

to say, the sands are not, in'such a case, heaped against the mountain
sides, nor yet gathered into the hollows; they form a distinct, secondary
chain of themselves, corresponding in form and direction with the primary,
and separated from it by a broad valley, which is covered here with pebbles,
there with sand; now with herbage, and again with barrenness itself,

The camel, the sheep, and the goat, are the domestic animals of the
Sahara; few wild ones of any kind are te be found in the open Desert.
When the natives are asked about the lions which the learned of Europe
‘have given them for companions, they answer with imperturbable gravity,

that ‘perhaps in Christian countries there are lions which browse on herbage

and drink the-air, but in Africa they require running water and living
flesh; consequently they never appear in the Sahara.’ The wooded moun-
tains are infested with them, but they have no inducement to descend into
the sandy plains. The only formidable creatures are of the viper and
scorpion kinds. Few else except timid and inoffensive specics are natural
guests here: the principal are the gazelle, the ostrich, the antelope, and the
wild ass; but even these seem to venture little beyond the skirts of the
Desert, except in the neighbourhood of mountains. The chameleon is
common in the gardens of the central oases, where it is allowed to roam
unmolested, being rather a favourite than otherwise. It is described as a
most unsightly creature, changing its colour continually, but never exhibit-
ing a handsome one. Its hues are dunnisi red or yellow, and sometimes
a blackish brown; it is oftén varied with spot. or stripes, but frequently
without either. The construction of the eyes is remarkabic: they seem to
turn on a swivel, and are directed every way ina moment. The Saharian
traveller has frequent occasion to admire the facility with which the camel
turns its head and neck completely round, and looks north, south, east,
and west, without pausing, or even slackening its pace for an instant;
but he ceases to wonder if he has ever observed the’ rapidity of the
chameleon's eyo. :

Another singular creature is the thob (perhaps Monitor pulchra), a
large species of lizard not unlike a miniature alligator. It is sometimes
twenty inches long, and ten round the thickest part of the body. It is
covered with scaly mail, shining, and of a dark-gray colour, and has a
tail four inches long, composed of a series of broad, thick, and sharp bones.
The head is large and tortoise-shaped, the mouth small. It has four feet
or rather hands, on which it runs awkwardly enough, owing apparently to
its bulky tail. It hides in the dry sandy holes of the Desert, and the
Arabs say that a single drop of water kills it. The traveller is glad to
make a meal of the thob; and, prejudice apart, it is palatable food, not
unlike the kid of the goat.

Nor must we omit to mention the ouadad, or waden, an animal described
as between the goat and bullock in appearance. It is hunted in the sands
of the Central Desert, and its flavour is said to resemble that of coarse
venison. : Three or four of these animals were sent to the Royal Zoological
Gardens of London a few years ago.

The geology of the Desert is still involved in much obscurity. “Hum-
boldt proposes the question: ‘ Has this once been a region of arable land
whose soil and plants have been swept away by some extraordinary re-

volution? Or is the reason of its nakedness that'the germs of vegetable life
No. 69. i 9 i

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

have not yet been fully and generally developed?’ The most recent opinion
seems to be, that the latter is the true state of the case; that this expanse
of desert has risen from the bosom of the ocean at a very recent period,
subsequent even to the throes which gave birth to the regions of the Atlas
and Soudan. The present aspect of | its surface is exactly that which it
must have had while as yet submarine. ‘The rocks hid beneath the ocean,
and continually swept by its watérs, must tend to become even; the loose -
materials ef the mountains being detached and precipitated iuto the
hollows till the culminating points present only so many masses of smooth
and solid rock. Travellers have remarked this feature of the desert moun-
tains as contrasted with those of Morocco: the latter exhibit wooded
eraggy heights, bared by winds, bitten by frosts, and hoary with age,
though they are considered to have appeared after the formation of the
tertiary strata—that is, while the crust of the earth was in its present
state of development; but the hills of the Sahara are quite naked, dul,
and dead, smooth as velvet, and exhibiting a black or purple hue of pain-
ful uniformity. This is Mr Richardson’s report of those he met in his
route south from ‘lripoli; and he mentions what is yet more important,

‘their disposition north and south, which, if a general rule of distribution,
would go far to decide that they were not coeval with the Atlas range.
The immense quantitics of sea-shells found not only in the limestone-
rocks, but in the sandy and pebbly plains, and the salt which prevails
everywhere, seem to favour the view that thé sea has, till very lately,
covered the whole of the space now under consideration. Diodorus
Siculus mentions a lake of Hesperides in the interior of Africa, which,

aceording to ancient tradition, was suddenly dried up by a tearful convul-
sion of the earth; and Malte Brun conjectures that this lake could be no
other than that which once covered the Sahara. If we were to accept
this hypothesis, we could at once tind the long lost isle of Atlantides,
without supposing the submergence of a country whose summits only
remain in the Canaries and Azores. The region of the Atlas Mountains,
including the fertile shores of the Meditcrraucan, still wear the appearance
of a great island, washed on the south by the Sahara-belama (sea without
water), whose sands reach from the ocean to the Gulf of Syrtis. If, how-
ever, the Atlantides of Plato must be placed in the Atlantic, and beyond
the Pillars of Hercules, might uot such a convulsion as submerged this
conntry have been sufficient to upheave the Sahara?

Il.

Tuhabitants of the Desert—Berbers and Arabs—their Habits, Oceupationa, and Migrations, Tho
Targhee and his Meharce—The Tibboos—The Maraboot Tribes,

' Many portions of this singular region are, as we have seen, uninhabited
and uninhabitable; but by” far the greater part is scantily peopled by
various tribes of two distinct nations. The aboriginal race is that which
has been denominated the Atlas Family, said to have arisen from the mix-
‘ture of the two primitive uations which occupied Northern Africa. in the
‘“parliest ages—that is to say, the Libyans in the Hast, and the Getulians in
E ‘the West. The- Romans, and after them the Vandals, mingled themselves
10

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.

with this race; and in the Berber branch it now presents varions elements
which the succession of gencrations and multiplicity of crosses have com-
Lined into a homogeneous people. The other nation is the Arabs, who are
obviously invaders. Negroes are seldom to be met with in the Desert except
as slaves or occasional immigrants; they are uot found as a population
attached to the soil; and Jews have crept all round its borders, but seem
never to have ventured into its mysterious depths.

The Arab invasion of the Sahara seems to have commenced in the West
by Morocco or the shores of the Atlantic, and to have advanced castward
to the interior. All along the coast from the Senegal to the frontiers of
Morocco, and thence to the neighbourhood of the. Joliba,* they seem to
have utterly expelled the ancient possessors of the soil. Proceeding east-
ward, we find them mingled with Berbers, but occupying a distinct social
position, in the tract which lices between the route from Harib to Timbuctoo,
and that from Agablito the same place. Still farther in the same direction,
some are found in the country about Mabrook; bué beyond this the nomades
of the Arab race disappear, and are uot met with again till we reach
Darfoor. In all the towns, however—such as Agades, Kashna, &e.—there
are resident Arabs. A very powerlul tribe of them, called Shanbah, are
the principal possessors of some of the oases of Twat, and traverse the
desert wastes north aud west of these.F

Of the above-mentioned tribes, those aboui the north and east banks of
the Senegal occupy certain limited districts, having no occasion to change
their locality; the most numerous of them is the Ouled-Amer,t whose
territory is very considerable. It is otherwise with those who live farther
north: they are subject to annual migrations, from the failure of pasture
and water during the summer months. ‘The great tribe of the Ouled-
Deleim, who in winter occupy the country round Hoden, migrate in
summer to the neighbourhood of Noon, where they possess wells and oases.
A great number both of Arab and Berber tribes of this part of the Sahara
pass the summer in the empire of Moroceo: such are the Harib, who itha-
bit the town so called, and at the approach of winter disperse southward
to a distance of a hundred miles or more. Xo far are these nomades from
wandering at hap-hazard, as many suppose, with their flocks and herds, and
sojourning for a time whercver they chance to meet with herbage and
water, each tribe las its own region uf pasturage when the rains of winter
have spread a scauty verdure on the Desert, and its retreat in some well-
watered spot during the parching heat of the summer months.

Such are the pastoral tribes of the West, and the same character seems
to apply throughout the Desert to those who follow similar ayocasions.
But the ShanLah above mentioned, and several other tribes having their
location about the commercial routes which connect Morocco with Twat.
and Twit with Tunis and Timbuctvo, seem to combine the mercantile and
piratical character in the highest perfection, conducting and defending the
caravans that.engage their protection by paying a sufficiently heavy tribute
for passing through their territories, while they plunder all others without

* The Niger.

+ Insome maps thia district is marked as the residence of the Twais, which
seems to be another designation for the Shanbah, but less correct.

+ Often corrupted inte Ludamar.

iy

CHAMBEHS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

mercy. Their great rivals in both these branches of industry are the
‘Touurik, whose singular character and habits will merit a more particular
description when we come to notice the more central tribes. l

Throughout the whole extent of the Northern Sahara, where the oases
are numerous, we find the Berber and Arab races united by ties of mutual
dependence; yet not more distinct in feature and language than in their
social position and employment. The Arabs, true to their vagabond in-
stincts, traverse the open country with flocks and herds; undertake the
transport of merchandise ; engage in the convoy or pillage of caravans; and
carry on, in short, all that may be termed the external relations of the
community. They are the more numerous and wealthy, of course also the
dominant people. In the palmy days of the Hlamian-garabas, a single in-
dividual has been known to possess 2000 camels, and four times as many
sheep. The Berbers, on the other hand, are the sedentary population :
they inhabit the oases, where the men employ themselves in cultivating the
gardens, and the women. conduct the manufactures. In their continual
wanderings, the nomades cannot carry all their property with them, and
the ksour* become the depositories of their goods. Many of them,
besides, have purchased land in the oases, and are obliged to employ the
sedentary inhabitants to cultivate it. On the other hand, as soon as the
modest accumulations of the ksourian permit, he buys a sheep, which he
confides to the pastoral care cf the nomade tribe. Thus the two nations,
who seem to have nothing in cummon but their religion, and between whom
there is anything but cordiality of feeling, are closely bound together by a
reciprocity of interest, and peace is the necessary result.

The French, who have been labouring these twenty years to subjugate
these people, say that the Arab submits, revolts, and submits againg again
to commence the same alternation of rebellion and obedience, according to
the impulse he receives from his own interest or caprice, or from the insti-
gation of the Maraboots; the Berber loves lis independence, but when
once he has been made to fecl a mightier power, he respects the oath that
he has sworn. The Arab escapes the punishment of his perfidy by
plunging with his tents and flucks into deserts where no army can follow ;
but the Berber is confined.to his ksar and his gardens.

Dr Jacquot describes tlic first oasis he saw in Sahara as ‘a little green
corner, fresh and shady, cheered with the song of birds, and enlivened by
the murmur of waters. The dates waved their elegant plumes high in
the air; the pomegranates and fig-trees crowded between the columns of
the palins;.the wheat and barley clothed the soil with verdure; the water
flowed in every direction, and the humid vapours vivified the foliage. One
could not help trembling for the little spot, it seemed such a feeble thing
in the immensity of the Desert, surrounded by desolate plains, and menaced
by moving sandhills.’

This little oasis is about five-eighths of an English mile in length, and a
little less in breadth. It occupies the bottom of a narrow ravine, which
shelters it in almust every direction. It is enclosed by a mud-wall from
7 to 10 feet high, and from 8 to 12 inches thick, flanked with about five-

i ' Kaar is the village of an oasis; Ksour is the plural; and Ksourian ‘the inhabi-
ant.
12

THE ‘DESERTS OF AFRICA.

and-twenty round towers, generally built of stone. These are the sentry-
boxes, on the flat roofs of which are stationed nightly guards to protect
the gardens from pillage. The gardens of the oasis lic against the general
wall, and are divided into a number of small enclosures, each of which is a
separate property. Next to the gardens, towards the centre, are the fields
of corn, barley, and onions, likewise divided into small squares, which are
watered and tended like our favourite flower-beds, and through the midst
runs the Wady, which flows from four springs a little above the ksar.

Such an oasis does not at all correspond with our preconceived
European notions of these islands of the sandy ocean. It is not the
immense wild garden, which supplics in a day what will support its
inhabitants for a year; it is not a spot where numerous species of fruits
and flowers crowd and mingle in luxuriant confusion; it is not, in short, the
wild primitive oasis. It is niggardly nature, cultivated even to torture by
human industry ; it is wise, modest, economical husbandry, which rejects
the ostentation of useless fuliage, and the empty show of unproductive
blossoms ; which refuses space for a single tree or flower that is merely
ornamental, and makes room for those only which yicld food for the sus-
tenance of human life. The ksar is built of stone, and presents the appear-
ance of a single building, or rather a mass of heavy masonry, perforated here
and there with a small window, and diversified with jutting and retiring
angles. The flat roofs rise above cach other in irregular terraces, and none
of the streets are open to the exterior; they are closed up with masonry,
affording no entrance but by four narrow doors. In fact, there is no such
thing as we should call a street, none being open to the heavens above;
they are narrow, dark, often uneven passages winding under the buildings.
The main object in the construction seems to have becn to pile the houses
compactly together, avoiding exterior openings, which might serve for the
admission of an cnemy, and crowding as many human beings as possible
into a given space. About 300 men, women, and children, a lymphatic,
sickly, scrofulous generation, are huddled togcther in this ksar.

Some oases are considerably larger than the onc we have described, and
some of the buildings are much more extensive ; but this general plan, both
as to the gardens and the dwellings, seems to obtain throughout the northern
and western portions of Sahara, where the Berber race are in general
the architects and husbandmen.

The most interesting structures, however, are not the ksour, but the
marabets, or sepulchral chapels, which stand outside the walls. These are
generally square, and surmounted by a cupola, the whole being of stone or
brickwork, executed by artisans brought from Morocco for the express
purpose. Sometimes the principal cupola is flanked by four secondary
ones, the interior presenting a court, surrounded by a gallery, supported
by Moorish arcades. The ostrich egg, instead of a stone or metal ball,
crowns the summit of these pyramids. The ksourians choose to reserve
all the luxury and magnificence of their architecture to adorn the little
temples around which they excavate their last resting-places. These are
not, like the habitations of the living, subject to'the ravages of invading
foes, for they are universally held sacred; and the conqueror, covered with,
blood, approaches here with reverence, and prostrates himself in lowly
worship. Life is so ephemeral when the elements of nature and a aes

l

CHAMDERS'’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

of the enemy continually threaten its existence, that the ksourian cares not
to lavish his wealth on the dwelling in which he may remain but for a
day: he reserves all his solicitude for that which will shelter him for ever
from the storms of life.

The camel and the date are to the inhabitants of the African deserts what
the reindeer and the lichen are to those of the polar regions; and while
many of the less enterprising nomades live at least two-thirds of the year
on camels’ ‘milk, so in the oases dates are the staple article of food, and
aged ksonrians may be found who have never tasted bread.

The tree which produces this valuable fruit is the palm which gives so
peculiar and imposing an aspect to the verdant spots of the Desert. Its
straight and lofty trunk, fifty, sixty, or even one hundred fect high, is
crowned by a tuft of large radiating leaves or fronds. The calyx has six
divisions, and the fruit is a drupe, considerably larger than an acorn; of a
full red colour when ripe, and cnelosing a hard kernel, from which it is
easily separated. It is pulpy. firm, csculent. aud sweet, with slight astrin-
gency. The trees are iaised fre. shoots, which arrive at maturity in
thirty years, and continue in full bearing for seventy longer, producing
yearly fifteen or twenty clusters, which may weigh from fifteen to twenty
pounds each.

When any one wishes to make a date plantation, or to form a garden, as
the natives say, he summons the neighbouring proprietors to his assistance,
gnd thus accomplishes his work with economy as well as dispatch ; for their
services cost him nothing but the obligation to return the like when
demanded: the only auxiliaries who reccive waves are those who are not
proprietors. The whole of the sand requires to be removed to the depth
of several fect. in order that the roots may reach the water; besides, a
trench is dug round every stem at a proper distance, aud into this, when
necessary, water is poured, in order that, sinking through the soil, it may
effectually reach those fibres that chiefly require it. This irrigation is
generally committed to the women and children by those who have no
slaves; and the precious fluid is carried in skins of animals, or baskets of
halfa, plaited so closcly as to be water-tight. In most cases canals are cut
in every direction, communicating with the springs which supply the oasis ;
and where restriction is necessary, each proprietor pays so much an hour
for the flow of a stream into his garden. In some of the oases, each has
the prescriptive right of an hour or two, according to the title-deeds of his
estate. The time is measured by a rude chronometer held by the officer
who opens and shuts the conduit.

The mode of preserving dates is very simple. They are mercly pressed
closely together in large woollen bags, and thus form compact masses,
‘which keep for several years. Sometimes a large white worm is engen-
dered in these, but it seems to occasion no disgust. ‘Every species of
demegtic animal in the Desert, even dogs and horses, can make a meal of
dates. But this fruit, however valuable, is, as an aliment, very inferior to
the cereals; it is capable of less varicty of culinary preparation, and through
time it produces painful satiety and fatigue of the digestive organs. ` Where
Tittle else is to be had, the ksourian employs various devices to alleviate
the monotony of his fare : he cooks his dates with oil or butter, or mingles

them with onions and other vegetables, which are usually cultivated in the
l4

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.

date gardens. But the favourite ragout, especially in the north, consists of
locusts boiled in salt and water. At certain scasons these creatures traverse
che air in dense clouds, and fall in numbers to the earth; they are collected
with care, and those which are not used immediately, are dried and reduced
to powder, which is kept for times of scarcity.

The sap of the date-palm furnishes a highly-estsemed beverage, called
luqm?, "Vo obtain this, it is necessary to cut off ihe higher branches, and
bore a lateral hole in the stem thus tonsured; into this the end of a reed is
iatroduced, and the liquor flows through it ranidly, especially in the morn-
mg and evening. lt is said that a single tree will yield fourteen or fifteen
quarts daily for two successive years, but it would perish in the third if
the bleeding were continued. The taste of the lagmi is not unlike sweet
barley-water, and by fermentation it may bhe transformed into an excellent
drink resembling cider.

The wood of the palm-tree is used for building: the trunk, sawn in two
ilong the grain, furnishes the joists and rafters ; the palm or jerid is placed
on these to form the lathing, and sometimes above all is placed a layer of
saaf or palm-leaf. All articles of carpentry are made of this wood, and
where itis very abundant it is even used for fuel; hut more generally the
latter consists of the withered bushes which cover the sandy plains, where
they are gathered by the nomade tribes of the locality, and carried to the
Oases. i

Every part of tlis valuable trec is turned to account. The fibrous net-
work which surrounds the branches where they attach themselves to the
stem ix twisted into strong tough ropes, with which the camels are tethered:
the branches, besides the use we have mentioned, are made into baskets of
various kinds, and the stones are pounded, and used to fatten sheep and
camels. ‘hus the date-palm appears to be in Africa what the cocoa-nut is
in the islinds of the Pacitic: the native derives from it food, drink, habi-
tatiou, and almost every utensil he employs. In those places where money
is scarce, a certain measure of dates, called a hatia, serves as a kińd of cur-
rency; it is at lcast a usual term of comparison by which the value of vari-
ous articles of merchandise is estimated, even though the measure varies in
different places, and the price of dates rises and falls with the seasons.

The woollen fabrics, which, with the cultivation of dates, forms the princi-
pal object of Saharian industry, are chiefly burnooses, haiks, and gandouras.
The burnoose is the Arab cloak, which is furnished with a hood; the haik
is a long reciangular piece of cloth, which the men wrap round their heads,
allowing the ends to fall down over the body, while the women use it as a
shawl, covering the head and face with it, especially in cold weather. ‘The
gandoura is a kind of blouse, which reaches down to the feet. Throughout
the Desert the manufacture of these fabrics is devolved entirely on the
females, the men considering it enough if they attend, and that but partially,
to the husbandry ; the produce of the two occupations proves in the market
of about equal value; and it is certain that the merit of a wife in the Sahara
is estimated by her dexterity in weaving rather than by her personal charms.
The northern oasés produce the finest goods; but in every part of the Desert
the women make some attempt at manufacturing: even those of the nomade
tribes weave the coarse stuff which forms their tents and the sacks for
loading their camels. The material used is a mixture, variously propor-

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE. me

tioned, of the hair of camels and goats; the former raises the price, as it is
considered more impervious to rain. The colour of the tents is that by
which the great nomade tribes, when encamped, distinguish cach other
from afar, the darkest being the most aristocratic.

The Arab dress is uscd both by nomades and ksourians. They shave
the head, preserving only the lock of which the Angel of Death is to lay
hold and carry them up to paradise. This religious belief has set a
peculiar stamp on all the nations of Islamism; and if the disciple of
Mohammed makes a point of decapitating his already lifeless foe, it is not
for the sake of committing a wanton outrage on the corpse, but in order to
make him feel, even in another world, the weight of his vengeance; for a
headless body is doomed to rot on the ground, and the soul that animated
it to wander for ever far from the happy gardens promised in the Koran as.
the eternal residence of the faithful.

' A white woollen haik, a kind of frock without sleeves, Morocco slip-
pers, and a silk girdle, compose the dress of the wealthier female Saharians.
Necklaces, bracelets, and rings, complete the toilet of a woman of quality,
who besides stains her eyelashes black, and gives a yellow colour to her
nails, the palms of her hands, and the instep of her foot, with a decoction
of lausonie inermis. Tattooing, the indelible and economical adornment
both of rich and poor, consists only of small and scattered designs—the
Saharian population being in this respect far behind the great artists of
New Zealand. They go unveiled, and seem under less restriction than is
usual in most other communities of Islamism. Polygamy is freely indulged
within the limits prescribed by the Koran.

Indolence seems to be the besetting sin of all the tribes of the Sahara:
when not travelling, they will sleep in the open air twenty hours out of the
twenty-four; vet when excited by any serions occurrence or important in-
terest, they are capable of acting with considerable energy, and sustaining
great fatigue. On the whole, however, they seem better adapted for patient
toil and endurauce than for vigorous and enterprising activity. Pride and
ostentation are distinguishing features of their character; and on the other
hand are the patriarchal virtucs of reverence for parents, obedience to all
constituted authority, and cordial hospitality towards strangers. ‘That,
however, which strikes a stranger perhaps most of all, is their unparalleled
resignation to what they believe to be the divine will; that ‘it is decreed,’
scems to reconcile them to the severest sufferings, and not a murmur
escapes from their lips. Nor must we omit to mention the fertile imagi-
nation, of which the Arab has lost nothing by being translated from the
deserts of Asia to those'of Africa: every spot has its legend, every rock its
marvellous tale; a good storyteller is welcomed and feasted under overy
‘tent, where the family, squatting in a circle, listen with avidity to tales, in
which the Deity is continually represented as revealing himself to man by
miraculous interferences. :

. Within the last few years considerable light has been thrown on the
social condition of the northern tribes, and interesting particulars have
been collected respecting their periodical migrations. The nomades pass
the winter and spring in the open Desert, where, during this part of the
year, they. find -both water and vegetation; but they sojourn only three or
four days in one spot, and strike their tents as soon as the pasture is con-

t

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA. -

sumed. Towards the end’of spring they visit the oases where their goods
are deposited, load their camels with dates and woollen cloth, and proceed
northward, taking with them the whole nomade city, including women,
children, dogs, flocks, and tents. Now, the waters of Sahara are drying
up, and ‘the plants are withering, while in the Teil the grain is ripening.

They arrive in the season of harvest, when the price of corn is low, and the
juncture is doubly favourable for abandoning the now sterile Sahara, and
finding the markets of the Tell overflowing with cereals. Here, then, they
spend the summer months in the activities of commerce, exchanging their
dates and woollen goods for barley, raw wool, sheep, and butter. Now
also, the lands of the Tell are vacant, the harvest having been gathered in ;
and the soil is improved rather than injured by their cattle, which are
permitted freely to browse upon it. The close of summer is the signal for
departure—a summons hailed with joy, as announcing the time for returning
to their native country. Again loading their camels and striking their
tents, the moving cities turn towards the south, and make their way into
the Desert by short journeys as they came. They arrive at the oases just
when the dates are ripe—that is, toward the end of October; a month is
required, even with their assistance, to gather and house them; another is
spent in exchanging their corn, barley, raw wool, &e. for the dates which
have been gathered, and the woollen fabrics which have been produced
during the year by female industry. These are naw carefully deposited in
the magazines, and the nomade tribes retire from the oases, conducting
their flocks from pasture to pasture in the open country, till the return of
summer demands a repetition of the same journeyings and the same labours.
During the date-harvest, a load of corn in the Desert is worth two of dates ;
while in the Tell, at the corn-harvest, a load of dates is worth two of grain.
This general rule is subject to little variation; so that if a grower conducts
his traffic without any intermediate agent, he realises a profit of three
hundred per cent.

The extensive tract of country which lies hetween the Ime from Agabli
to Timbuctoo, and that from Gadamis to Kashna, is the principal though
not the only range of the Touarik.* They constitute not a tribe merely,
but a great nation, divided into several sections, of which each has its
sultan and subordinate chiefs. It is impossible to form any correct estimate
of their numbers. A large proportion are pastoral tribes, feecing their flocks
in the desert wastes; the rest are engaged in commerce and piracy. Several

large towns and numerous villages along the frontiers of Soudan and in
the Hogger Mountains serve them as depots. The Touarik are a white-
skinned race, and supposed to be a branch of the Atlas family, older and
purer than the Berber: their language is a dialect of that spoken by the
Berbers of the Tell and the northern oases, but characterised by a rough-
ness which has led to its being called by Europeans the ‘German of the
Desert :’ it seems to approximate most to the language of the Gouanches,
the aborigines of the Canary Islands.

Placed between the white race and the black, the Touarik are the terror
of both, and appear now with savage ferocity to avenge themselves on the
descendants of those who drove their fathers into the Deserts. That

* The singular is Targhee.

V7

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

section of them which is found along the borders of Soudan is said to be
in the highest degree sanguinary and faithless. To ambush in the neigh-
bourhood of the little towns inhabited by negroes—to rush upon them a

dead of night—to seize them, throw them on their meharees, and fly with
the swiftness of the wind—such is the principal branch of industry pursucd
by these formidable robbers. When they have formed a sufficient collection
of hapless victims, they repair to the market of Ghat or Ghadamis, and
‘sell them to the merchants of the north who frequent those towns. Soime-
times, after having delivered to the purchasers all that they obtained in the
‘razia, as ncgro-hunting or stealing is called, they set out again, waylay the
caravan of their customers, and bear away the slaves (hon they ‘have s%
recently sold. The merchants may, if they please, return to the market,

purchase them a second time, and take care to hire a strong enough escort
before undertaking the journey again.

Along the route from Demergon and Kashna to Ghadamis, the various
Touarik act as convoys to merchant-caravans ; but in every wither direetion,
and especially on the frequented lines between Timbuctov and the oases er
Twat, they plunder without mercy. ‘Though they wander through every
part of Central Africa and the Desert, none of them can be prevailed ou to
visit the coust: and the inhabitants of Morocco, Algeria, and Tripoli, know
them only’ hy the report of the Aral tribes who traverse the northern
portions of Sahara.

Jt is worth while here to remark the errors that attach to hearing only
one side of a story, cspecially with reference to regions so imperfectly
known. Our more recont English travellers, as Andney, Clapperton, and
Richardson, having centered the Desert by Tripoli, and pursued the route
which the Tenarik keep under their exclusive voutrol, found them much
less formidable than they had anticipated; but they speak of the Shanbah
as banditti of the most ruthless and reckless character, who, having no stake
like the Touarag in the commerce of the Desert, have been celebrated from
time immemorial as the robbers and assassins of Sahara. ‘To be a
brigand, says Mr Richardson, ‘is with them a hereditary honour; and

‘they are the dread of the people of Wad-reklah, as well as of foreign mer-
chants and caravans. They have a well scooped out in the sandy regions
where their tents are pitched; and here they live in horrid security, defying
all law and authority, human and divine. Around them is an immensity
of sandy wastes, and none dare pursue them into their dens. Horses,
‘would be useless, and it would require, says the Ghadainsee Rais, 200 men,

th 400 camels, 800 water-skins, and provisions for two months, to make
he least i impression on them. Their numbers are recruited from various
other Arab tribes, whose outlaws join their ranks.’

The French writers, on the other hand, represent the Shanbah, or
Cha’'ambi, whom it is their interest to conciliate, from their proximity to
Algeria, as the most industrious and enterprising merchants of the Desert,
and the Touarag as the parasites, the corsairs—in fact, the only redoubtable
enemies to be feared in the sandy ocean. The truth is, that the Toaarag
and the Shanbsh are neighbours, and at the same time deadly, irrecon-
Mable, and national foes; the latter being pure Arabs, and the former the
aboriginal race of the country. Generally, there remains a considerable
space between them; but if the nomade tribes reach at the same time the

1$.

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.

furthest limits of their rospective territories, a collision is inevitable.
Plunder is the main object of the Shanbah, and their preparations include
means of transport as well as weapons of war. ‘ihe principal objects of
their desire are meharecs and slaves, or if they can get nothing better, camels
and sheep. Sometimes, however, they carry of nothing but the killed and
wounded : such are the chances of war. Vengeance for these assaults, and
a deep-settled abhorrence of the Shanbih teibe, seem to be the great oxcite-
ments to warfare on the part of the chivalrous Touarag; and the recital of
their adventures is carried by each party to their homes—the French
nation receiving the Arab story, with embelushments, through their tribu-
taries, while those who pass by Ghat and Ghadamis hear the other side,

in the Deserts of Africa, as well ss in those of Asia, the hand of the
Arab is against every man, and every man’s band against lum; and it is to
be feared that throughout the Sahara a stranger aud an enemy, a merchant
and a robber, are terms nearly synonymous: that hostile tribes seldom
mect withont collision; and that pillage is the mmquestioned right of the
victor. Yet in the Targhee towas theft is said to be quite unkuown, except
as occasioually practised by the tributaries or slives. idelity and hos-
pitality seem also to distinguish these rovers: those who commit them-
selves to their protection will be defended with the last drop of their blood,
and nothing is so offensive tu the high-minded Targhee as to be distrusted.
The reader smiles, perhaps, at the very mention of chivalry, high-minded-
ness, and the demand of confidence m connection with the freebooters of
the Sahara; but let him know that throughout the Jength and breadth of
the Desert they carry the letters of the merchants unsealed, yet sacredly
inviolable. If an inquisitive European asks to see them, he is peremptorily
informed that it is keram (prohibited) to read these documents. We ven-
ture to inquire, what would the Aaute-police do with open letters, if such
passed through the post-offices of La Belle France? Or nearer home, how
have sealed ones been treated in England? Might not some of the minis
ters of our gracious Queen have passed a few months with advantage among
the Touarag, taking lessons in honour and integrity ?

Besides their revengetul and piratical habits, which are indeed legitimate
causes of dread, the singularity of their appearance and manners combine
to render the Touarag objects of terror throughout the Desert. They are
tall, some of them even gigantic, and generally slender and nimble; hence
the Arabs give them the appellation of lulh or bean-—beams which become
* transformed into living catapults when they are animated by the desire
either of pillage or vengeance. While the Arab dress is used by all the
other inhabitants of the Desert, the Touarag maintain a peculiar costume.
It consists of wide pantaloons, and a variable number of vestments, in the
form of loose gowns or blouses, with wide sleeves. These are made of a
cotton cloth called saie, which is brought from the negro country; it is
only a few inches broad, generally of different shades of blue, and variously
striped. Whether in the town or tent, they generally wear at least three
of these garments, the outermost of which is ornamented with rich em-
broidery in gold, forming irregular designs, and particularly heavy on the
loft breast and the right shoulder-blade. When they betake themselves to
the open country, they add other two blouses of a dark blue colour, and
the haik or barracan, which is a long woollen scarf, worn over the shoulders.

19

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

But the great distinguishing feature of the male Targhee dress is the litham;
a thin piece of cloth wound round the head, and then covering the forehead,
the eyes partially, and the mouth and chin. The stuff of which this is com-
posed is varnished with gum, to prevent the adhesion of the sand: thus
are the mouth and eyes defended from cutting winds and drifting sands,
and the wearer can travel several days longer without feeling parched in
the absence of water. The Touarag pluck out the beard, coutrary to the
usage of the Rerbers and Arabs, among whom this is a sacred ornament. A
huge spear is carried in the right hand, the dagger is fastened under the
left arm, and the sword swings behind. We must not omit to mention,
also, that a profusion of talismans are strung round the neck; and so great
is the confidence attached to them, that similar charms are hung round
their meharees, to preserve them from the mange, and even on the date-
trees, to save them from blight.

‘Though professing the Moslem faith,” say our French informants, ‘the
Touarag are not considered by any means very scrupulous in the perform-
ance of its duties.’ It seems that those who live in or near the negro
country mingle the idolatrous rites of Fetichism with the observances of
the Koran; but the Arabs look upon the whole race as heretics, from the
singularity of their language and costume, and especially from the fact that
in the shape of their weapons and the designs of their ornaments they
manifest a decided predilection for the form of the cross, so abhorrent to
those Mussulmans that recoguise in it the emblem of the Christian faith.
The handle of the Targhee sabre and the front of the saddle take this shape,
and the cross is the favourite pattern of the embroidery on his dress. It is
doubtless with indignant refercnce to these departures from orthodoxy that
the Arabs of Sahara denominate the Touarag the ‘ Christians of the Desert.’
Yet our English travellers describe them as spiteful in their religious
bigotry, if not scrupulous in their practice. Children scarcely two years
old would run out of their dwellings, spitting and crying, ‘ Kafer! Kafer !’—
(infidel!) The wonderful descriptions which these gentlemen gave of
European arts, for the entertainment of the natives, were constantly
answered by the remark— Christians know everything but God.’ As Mr
Richardson sat one day in the open court of his house, about an hour and
a half before sunset, during the great feast called Ramadan, a Targhee
entered, and standing before him in an erect posture, with his long spear
in the right hand, he stretched the left towards heaven, looked upwards,,
and addressed him in a solemn, measured tone: ‘ And—thou—Christian !
thou—fastest—thus! Thy father—knoweth--not—God! Thou art a
Kafer—he is a Kafer—and the fire will devour you both at last l’

The female Touarag are said to be ‘fair as Christian women,’ pretty,
coquettish, and saucy. Their dress is very simple, consisting merely of a
chemise and short-sleeved frock, with a haik. They wear bracelets, anklets,
&c. of painted wood, if they cannot afford the precious metals; and round
their necks are hung talismans, pieces of coral, and occasionally small
mirrors. They go unveiled, and scem at perfect liberty; for here, again,

‘the Targhee character differs from the Arab in the absence of that conjugal
jealousy which marks the Mussulman of the East. The perfection of Targhee
heauty is not embonpoint, like the Mooresses and Negresses; but, as the
„Arabs say or sing, ‘Slender as the bending rush, or taper lance of Yemen.’

fae 0 . =

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.

Another point of civilisation in which this race are in advance of both
the Moors and Arabs is, that spoons are in very general use among them.
These are made of wood, and exceedingly neat—a negro manufacture, as
we remarked of the cotton cloth.

Of all the tribes of Africa, the Touarag alone have an indigenous alphabet,
and most of them read and write their own characters—uot indeed on paper
or parchment, but on the sand and the dark rocks with which their country
abounds.

Their principal market is Ghat, and their capital Agades. The latter
is a fine town, built like Tunis: it is the residence of the sultan of one
section of the Touarag. The subordinate chiefs exercise much authority ;
and, on the whole, the government scems to be a kind of irregular oli-
garchy. That which renders travelling so dangerous here, as in every part
of the Desert, is, that the stranger may place himself under the protection of
a convoy at Agades, for example, but his way may be through the territory
of a different or even a hostile tribe of the same nation; and he has no
security in case of meeting with a stronger party belonging to it. Timbuc-
too is the goal which the European adveuturer generally wishes to attain;
but the Touarag who command the route south from Ghadames will not
undertake to protect him westward, because those who surround, and in-
decd blockade Timbuctvo, are not amenable ic the government at Agades.

Aheer is another important oasis of the Touarag. Its houses, unlike
those of the Berbers, are circular, and stand far asunder, so that they spread
over a considerable space. They are built of small stones mixed with
red earth; a dome of thatch forms the roofing; and as a security against
the wind, each dwelling has four doors, oue locking to cach point of the
compass. The wells are constantly supplied with water, and there are
cisterns to receive that which falls from the clouds. This neighbourhood
is the favourite soil of the senna-plant. Its flowers are yellow, the leaves
very large, and, except at the edges, of a dark purple colour. Large
quantities of it are sent northward, packed in sacks of palm-leaves, which
require to be renewed at Ghat. The natives wonder what we do with so
much medicine: they have no idea of the millions of European population ;
still less of the quantity and varicty of eatables and drinkables with which
we overload and disorder the digestive system. The people of the Sahara
use very little physic; their principal demands on the healing art are
occasioned by external injuries, for which burning, bleeding. and charms,’
are their favourite remedies. To these some add manipulation, and after a
severe fall every muscle is stretched, rubbed, and coaxed, with the utmost
assiduity. ~

In all his expeditions, whether honest or dishonest, the meharee is the
inseparable companion of the Targhce. It seems to bear the same relation
to the common camel that the racer does to the draught-horse; but of all
animals it is perhaps that which, from the nature of the country it inhabits,
and of the service it is doomed to perform, has been the least made an
object of observation and study. ‘The only country that agrees with it is
the Central Desert: it cannot live either in the northern part of Africa or .
in the mountainous country of Nigritia. Even every part of the Desert
does not. seem to agree equally well with it; for the Shanbah and the
‘Ommadi, though very covetous of these animala, rear few if any for ore

2

CHAMBERS'’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

selves. Nature seems to have appropriated them to the special service of
the Targhee: they are the affectionate companions of his roving life; the
docile, intelligent, and disinterested instrament of his piracies. The
servant and the master sccm to have been cast in the same mould: the
meoharce is very tall, and from being of light and slender make, appears to
stand considerably higher than the camel. His neck is remarkably long,
his legs thin and delicate, and his brunch projects but little. His counte-
nance, like that of the cainel, is careless and imperturbable; but under this
sorry aspect and sceming indolence, he conceals qualities which might
almost make him the king of beasts—a fidelity and gentleness which is
proof against every trial, a sagacity resembling that of the dog, and a
swiftness far superior to that of the horse. Like his master, he has i
physical organisation adapted to the region in which his lot is cast—in the
midst of immense plains, between an arid soil and a burning sun, compelled
to travel great distances in search of food, and continually exposed to the
sultry breath of the south wind, he is endowed with singular powers of
resistance to all these elements of destruction. Accustomed to the scanty
herbage afforded hy his native sands, the mebaree does not sceon to feel it
any luxury to browse on the richer pastures of the coast; he is mado for
the Desert, sterile and ungracious as it is, and can live nowhere else. The
Arabs attribute the danger uf his expatriation to a poisonous little plant
called drias, which does not grow in the Targhee country, but is so like
a wholesome one on which the animal is accustomed to feed, that he
crops it without perceiving the difference, and perishes the victim of his
mistake. However this may be, meharees seldom appear even in the
northern oases, except at Metili and Wad-reklah, whither they are occa-
sionally brought by the Shanbah, who have parchased or stolen them
from their natural masters.

As the transport of goods rarely demands great speed, the common camel
is almost exclusively uscd tor this purpose, the meharce being reserved for
services requiring expedition. TIe renders valuable assistance to caravans
which, when preparing to set out, generally despatch avant-couriers, mounted
on swift courscrs, fo reconnoitre the ronte, and ascertain whether it is
supplied with water, and whether beset with any danger. But it appears
that the meharee cannot and dues not make any companionship with the
coast camel. If the two incidentally mect, both shew agitation and alarm;
but the camel confesses its inferiority by scampering off as fast as possible.
‘The natives divide their meharch or meharees into ten classes, according
to their swiftness: the lowest comprehends those which can make about
twenty-five of our miles in a day, and the highest those which clear eight
or nine times that space. It is confidently asserted that a good meharee
can travel scventy or eighty miles, day after day continuously ; and that,
in an extreme case, one of them made the journey from Ghadamis to
Tripoli, a distance of above 260 of our miles, in one day; but the rider
expired from exhaustion immediately on his arrival.

e The mode of rearing this fayourite animal is curious. As soon as he is
born, he is plunged to the neck in fine shifting sand, lest: his soft and
slender limbs should be bent by supporting the weight of his body; and
for fourteen days he is fed on a diet chiefly of butter and milk, the com-
position and quantity of which varies every day, according to established

99 \

TIE DESERTS OF AFRICA.

y

and well-known rules. At the end of a month he is allowed to rmn; an
iron ring is then passed through his nose, and his education commences.
When well trained, the meharee displays remarkable sagacity. If his rider
chooses to plant his spear in the grouid in the midst of a rapid course,
the animal, attentive to the slightest intimation of his wishes, turns round
the weapon, to enable him to regain it, and resumes tie course without
slackening his pace for a moment. When the warrior fails i in battle, the
faithful chat ger stretches himself ou the ground, as if inviting him again
to mount his back. If he is able to do sa, he bears him gently but swiftly
from the scene of carnage; but if the Targhee remains silent and motion-
less, the meharee hastens to the town or douar # of his habitation, exhibit-
ing the empty saddle to the bereaved family. The women now commence
the death-dirge—the children set up piercing cries—the whole community
is thrown into excitement and alarm, and the horizon is watched with
anxious solicitude. Some spots appear—they increase -—-they approach ;
they are other meharees without their riders—-mute but. truthful messengers
of sorrow, confirming the intelligence that the troup has been defeated, ‘and
the loved ones are no more. ‘The animals selduin all return, however: the
victors generally succeed in capturing some of them ; aud they bring a
high price when exposed for sale. A good meharee cannot be had for Jess
than 720 boujous (about £30 sterling), whercas a commou camel costs
about 50 (£3, 15s.) It is, therefore, among all the tribes except the Touarik,
an unusual and aristocratic means of locomotion.

Eastward of the route between Fezzan and Bornoo commences a black
population denominated Tibboos, and supposed to number 150,000. ‘This
is a native race, probably of great antiquity, and enumerated by geographers
as one of the branches of the Atlas family. Though black, the style of
their features is strikingly dissimilar to the negro. A hey are described as
a gay, lively, thoughtless race, with all the African passion for the song
and the dance, which last they practise with considerable grace. Their occu-
patious are chicfly pastoral, and their principal subsistence is derived from
the milk of their camels. Besides, they carry on a small traffic with the
north in slaves, which they kiduap in the negro country; and with the
south in the natron and salt, which their country produces in abundance.
Bilma is their capital- -a mean collection of mud hovels, but surrounded by
lakes containing the purest salt. A predatory warfare is kept up between
the Tibboos and their powerful neighbours the Touarik. In open fight the
‘Fibboos have no chance; when invaded, they climb the rocks in the
shelter of which their villages are always built, carrying with them what-
ever they'can remove. The Touarik sweep away all that is left, and load
their camels with the salt which is so valuable as an article of trade. [u
return, the Tibboos give considerable aunoyance by frequent and stcaltay
incursions into the Targhee country.

“4

A. singular feature in the social character of the Tibboos is said to be —

the dominance of the female sex in the hut and the tent. The man may be
the lord of creation in: the open country, where, indeed, he passes two-
thirds of - time, but at home he is knocked about at the pleasure of

* A village of tents,
' l 2 } a

CILAMBERS’'S PAPERS FOR TIIE PEOPLE.

his managing spouse. When a caravan for salt is coming from Abeer,
the men turn out and betake themselves to the mountains with provision
for a month, leaving the women to transact the business.

Throughout the Saharian Desert, an aristocracy seems to attach to the
blood of the saints, and some of the Maraboot tribes are among the most
wealthy and powerful to be met with. Such are the Shereefs, who, in
1516, overthrew the dynasty of Morocco, and placed on the throne one of
their own sheiks, by whose family it 1s still occupied. By this tribe is
conducted inost of the commerce pf Morocco eastward through the northern
states, which they supply with their own and European manutactures ;
and also to Twit, where they command several oases. The Oulad-sidi-
Sheiks are another vencrable tribe, who claim descent from a favourite
caliph of the Prophet; and who, by their numbers, nobility, wealth, and
sangtity, exercise a powerful influence throughout the date country. In
token of their aristocracy, they dwell under tents of black woollen fabric,
surmounted with ostrich-plumes, of which the size varies according to the
rank and fortune of each family. By this token they are distinguished
from the vulgar population of the Algerine Sahara, which is the land of
their habitation.

Still more remarkable for this incongruous union of the sacerdotal and
mercantile professions are the inhabitants of Gadamis. To a religious
scrupulosity that would tremble at a drop of prohibited medicine falling
on their garments, they add a spirit of commerce which is arrested by no
difficulty, and daunted by no péril. They plunge into the Desert, eager in
pursuit of gain, even when it is known to be infested with cut-throats ; ‘it
is decreed, the moment of their death is registered in the book of fate,
and no recklessness on their part can antedate the record. With scrupu-
lous exactitude, and with apparent carnestness too, they pray five times
daily while en route, the Jaws of the Koran allowing them to choose their
own time under these circumstances; yet they make no scruple about
buying and selling the unfortunate negro; and this traffic in human flesh
is the most lucrative branch of their commerce. The elder men, who have
retired from the activities of life, and indeed all the resident inhabitants
of Gadamis, seem to pass their whole time in formal devotional exercises.
Even the women here are admitted to have souls, and are carefully in-
structed in the Koran, besides being taught to repeat the usual prayers
and traditionary legends.

Unhappily the Turks, having incurred considerable expense in estab-
lishing their sovereignty at Tripoli, cast their eyes on this spot as an El
Dorado for the replenishment of their exhausted coffers. A pretext was
found for levying a heavy tribute; and though the holy Maraboot city of
the Desert had taken no part in the turmoils of the coast, and though the
pacific character of its inhabitants might well have exempted them from
interference, yet a Turkish garrison was placed within their walls, the
women and children were ‘stripped of their gold and silver ornaments,
«private dwellings were ransacked to meet the exorbitant demands of the
Ottoman Porte, and the city, which had flourished for ages in the pursuit
of its peaceful | commerce, is now groaning under oppression, and threat-
ened with ntter ruin: the Turkish rule has fallen like the lightning’s
blast, to wither one of the fairest palms of the African Desert.

24

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.

IIT.
The Commerce of the Desert— Various Modes of Travelling—LBest Mode of Exploring these
Regions.

Besides the traffic which we have had occasion to mention as carried on
by some of the nomade tribes for the supply of their immediate wants,
there is a regular and extensive system of commerce across the Sahara,
by which the civilised states of Europe are brought into communication
with the Negroland of Interior Africa. This commercial system is suff-
ciently complicated on account of the difficulties attending the transit, and
the various and even hostile interests that arc engaged in it. The produc-
tions of Europe cannot be transmitted, as is commonly imagined, into the
populous regions of Central Africa by caravans equipped in Morocco,
Algiers, Tunis, or Tripoli: the commerce of Sahara is by no means so
simple a matter. Tor instance, a bale of goods from Tunis, destined for
the south, is carried by native merchants to Khabs, the most southern
oasis of the- Tunisian Sahara. Here it is purchased by merchants from
(rhadamis, who convey it to their own city, where it becomes associated
with commodities from Tripoli, Algiers, and Eyypt. It proceeds, generally
after changing hands at Ghadames, by the great annual caravan to Ghat,
and is there exchanged for the productions of Soudan. Now, under the
care of the Touarik, it finds its way to the country of the blacks; but we
have no certain details of their mode of doing business. This is the
eastern route. Towards the west, the progress is somewhat similar.
Goods from the various towns of Morocco, and Algeria are carried by
native tribes iu Tafilet, Metili, &e. They are poured into the market of
El-Golea by the redoubtable Shanha, or the sacerdotal Shereefs. Thence,
by the same tribes and the Ommadi, they are conveyed to their respective
mnarkets in the oases of Twit; but from Twat to Timbuctoo they must
be in charge of the Khensafa, or the all-powerful Touarik. There are
somc few individuals who accompany their goods through all their wander-
ings; these are generally the merchants of Gadamis, who can travel the
whole of the eastern route under Targhee protection; or the Shanbah, who
may succeed in fighting their way on the western. The commerce pre-
sents different characters in these two directions. Tunis and Tripoli export
chiefly objects of luxury from Europe—as silk, and other articles of mer-
cery; pearls, cloves, cinnamon, perfumery, paper, cloth, &c. Morocco, on
the other hand, furnishes objects of more immediate necessity—such as
grain, sheep, and wool. Placed between the two, Algiers might partak»
of both, but the ravages of war have turned aside the caravans from her
oases. The staple commodities brought back from Soudan are negro
slaves, gold-dust, elephants’ teeth, senna, ostrich-feathers, buffalo-hides,
the blue cotton made in the negro country, gour-nuts for staining the
teeth, &c. The two last articles do not reach the northern states, but are
disposed of among the inhabitants of the Desert; and it is to be noted
that the oases are places of consumption and production, as well as of
exchange; they absorb a large, portion of the merchandise, both of the
north and south, on its way; while to the former they add salt and

natrona, to the latter dates and fine woollen cloth.
25

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

Each considerable town of the Desert becomes periodically a sook or fair.
An English traveller who witnessed that of Ghat four or five years ago,
states the number of merchants who arrived from various parts to have
been about 500; the camels 1050; the slaves 1000. ‘The value of the
slaves, elephants’ teeth, and senna, which were the staple commodities from
the south, was estimated at about £60,000, which would be doubled on
their arrival at European markets. ‘Besides these, there were ostrich-
feathers, hides, utensils of Soudan manufacture used in the Sahara, and
the dark blue calico which clothes half the mhabitants of the Desert. From
Europe there were bracelets, beads, looking-glasses, razors, sword-blades,
needles, paper, silks and cottons of gay colours; but everything of the
poorest quality. During the sook the place was supplied with provisions
by frequent caravans from the oases of Fezzan. V ery little gold was to
be seen. What dves come this way is chiefly in the form of female orna-
ments, rudely fashioned, but of the purest material. These are tied up in
filthy pieces of rag, and deposited, during their journeyings, in the bosom
or turban of the merchant. But most of the cold which is found in the
interior of Africa is carried either to Morocco or to the European factories
on the west coast.

Most of the traffic of the Desert is effected by barter, and very little
specie is used. That which is most circulated in the north is the money of
Tunis, which is current as far as the oases of Twit and Fezzan. Further
south there is some Spanish moncy transmitted through Moroccu, and à
few Turkish coins, which naturally find their way from Tripoli; but the
latter are gencrally disliked. The reason alleged is, that God taught Chris-
tians to make money, becauge it is a thing accursed, though necessary in
the present world; therefore Mussulmans ought nol to engage in this work.
In the future state, they say the faithful w ill have all good things to enjoy
without money ; whercas Christiaus will have melted coin poured down
their throats as their tormeut for ever. Among the negro tribes a shell
éurrency is used, known to us under the vulgar name of cowries. livery
year the English pour into this country, hy Guinea, nearly a hundred
tons of cowries from Bengal, where they bear about one-tenth part of the
value that they do in Soudan.

The means of travelling in this part of the world are utterly different
from those which nature and civilisation have bestowed on Europe. The
largest rivers are unnavigable at a few miles from their mouths ; the high-
way and the canal, to say nothing of the railway, are things unknown, as
are the vehicles of which they imply the use. The Arab roads in the north
are mere tracks marked on the sod by the naked foot of man, and the tread
of horse or mule. They are so narrow that two persons cannot walk on
them abreast ; consequently, if travellers or caravans meet, the one takes to
the right and the other to the left, so that two tracks are ‘formed ; and the
more any particular route is frequented, the more paths may be found,
sometimes ruming parallel and sometimes crossing each other. If an Arab
is turned ont of his track for a time, he hastens back to it as soon as pos-
sible; hence the intersections. On the other hand, if a caravan is very
large, it divides into two or tliree files, preserving equal distances ; and
hence the parallel paths. As the custom of proceeding in single file has
produced these narrow tracks, so have these in turn perpetuated the

26 we

TUE DESERTS OF AFRICA.

custom; in the Tell the natives may be seen travelling in single-file on
roads forty-eight feet broad, constructed by their European conquerors,
the traces of the uatioual locamotion being thus impressed on the high-
ways opened by civilisation.

But when we come to the sands of the open Desert, even these pathways
disappcar; the wind soon effaces the footprints of the passenger, and we
seek in vain for the long white track which guides the tiaveller through
imany parts of Northern Africa. The tuft of a pistachio, a lotus-plant, the
white top of a sandhill, the summit of a distant mountain—these are the
waymarks which guide him across the solitudes. In some of the most
monotonous plains, the inhabitants have taken the precaution to raise
pyramids of stones, whose sharp projections contrast with the smooth and
rounded features of the Saharian landscape. These waymarks are called
kerlors, and are especially employed to indicate the position of wells.
Another kind of monument also is frequently met with. ‘Travelling one
day,’ says M. Carette, ‘in company with several Arabs, I was astonished
to see them stop, one after another, while cach lifted a stone, and still more
surprised when they offered one to ine. On asking the reason, I was
informed that we were going to pass the nza of Bel-gacem! Though
very little the wiser, I took the stone, and in a few minutes afterwards we
came to a pile of pebbles about tive feet hish. Each of my companions
cast his stone upon it, oxclaiming “To the nza of Bel-gacem!” Of course
I added mine when my tarn came. This is the Arab mode of raising a
monument on the spot where any tragic event has taken place, and it
sometimes attains the height of *twelve or fifteen feet. Dr Jacquot
obtained the following history of one which be had occasion’to pass in the
Atlas Mountains :—The Ouled-Balaghr occupied the country to the west,
while the Thouamas fed their flocks to the east. The latter were a pacific
tribe, who desired nothing of their neighbours but to be let alone—their |
women to weave, their children to tend the flocks, and the men to doze all
day, crouching on the threshold of the tent, or stretching themselves on a
grassy mound. But, alas! the ferocious sheik of the Ouled-Balaghr con-
tinually interrupted their cnjoyments, and harassed them with war. He
delighted in finding the oily concous ready-hbaked, and the red piquant
sauce smoking in the dwellings of his neighbours; he preferred the yellow
streams of honey which filled the trunks excavated by the Thouamas to
those which he might himself obtain by patient industry. Besides, he had
other tastes which still more deeply aggrieved the husbands and fathers of
this inoffensive tribe. Mohammed espoused their cause; and in clear weather
ths guardian fairies might be distinctly seen surrounding their protégées in
seasons of extreme danger. One day, when the terrible sheik crossed the
boundary, longing after coucous, honey, and female heauty, he was met by
a holy maraboot, bent with age, and leaning on astaff. Raising his decrepit
form for an instant, ‘There is no god but Allah,’ said he, ‘and Mohammed
is his prophet. Hadst thou the wings of our mountain eagles, or the fleet
limbs of the antelope of the plain, thou shouldst proceed no farther.
Return to thy douar, rear bees for thyself, make thy women grind corn and
barley, and meditate thou in the Koran; but let the Thouamas alone, if
thou wouldst not perish on this spot as the scorpion which thy beast is
treading under foot.’ But the courser of the sheik was no such pusillani-

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

mous animal as Balaam’s ass of ancient fame: urged by his master's
shabeers,* he dashed past the holy man, tossed his mane, and broke into a
gallop. He had not gone many paces when he fell; both the horse and
his rider dashed their heads on a jutting angle of rock; the little Attila
became food for the crows and jackals, but burial was given to the less
guilty horse. Every Arab that passes adds a stone to the heap, and
exclaims, ‘It is decreed!’

Level and sandy tracts are always chosen for travelling when this is
possible, which is perhaps the reason that some travellers have supposed
the whole Desert to be a sandy plain. ‘The most dreaded part of the route
from Twat to Timbuctoo is over the tanezronfle, a plain of stiff red earth,
which cannot be crossed in less than ten or twelve days, and throughout
which not a drop of water is to be found. In the sand there is at least
always a soft dry hed, even after the heavicst rains, where the wandcrer
may repose his wearied limbs. Here, too, he is more likely to find springs
of water than in the clayey or stony tracts. The wells in the neighbour-
hood of oases are covered with skins, to preserve them from the intrusion
of the sand, and furnished with a bucket of plaited halfa, aud a cord to
reach the water. If this simple apparatus gets out of order, it must be the
result of long use or unforeseen accident; for it is guaranteed against
wanton injury by the respect which all native travellers entertain for these
little monuments of public utility. Any misadventure that occurs to them
is immediately reported to the chief of the oasis, who loses no time in
repairing it.

The European adventurer most commonly joins the gafala, or merchant
caravan, as it is not only the most expeditious, but the most secure and
economical mode of performing a journey, the expense of an escort being
saved. In all the northern oascs of any importance, there are fourdouks
or caravanserails corresponding with the principal points of commercial
intercourse ; and these serve not only as resting-places and hotels, but as
rendezvous and starting-points for the caravans which frequent them. If
the escorting towns are pretty considerable, the departures are periodical ;
but in all cases the day and hour of starting is intimated beforehand by
the chief driver; and in order to ascertain it, one has only to apply at the
proper fourdouk, where all particulars may be obtained.

The muleteers and camel-drivers form the nucleus of the caravan, and
regulate its movements. The leugth of a day’s journey is variable, depending
on the strength of the company, in connection with the nature of the route
and the degree of security anticipated. The usual distance is from twenty
to twenty-five miles, but it may extend to forty in regions destitute of water
or infested by robbers. Travellers who join a caravan are not obliged to
submit to any discipline; there is no community except that of dangers to
be escaped, and an end to be attained. If they sustain an attack, each one
consults his own courage, and does independently what in him lies to repel
or escape the enemy: it rarely happens that any regular disposition of force
is made either for the attack or the defence; and occurrences of this nature
alyays produce considerable disorder. The gafalas are almost entirely
composed of men whose principal occupation is commerce, but women are

* A kind of spur.
28

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.

uot excluded; and it is no uncommon thing to see widows, having no other
means of support, carrying on the traffic of their deceased husbands.

Another species of caravan is the neja, or migration of a tribe; and this
presents a much more lively scene than a gafala. ‘Lhe latter is a concourse
of imen who have little acquaintance with each other, its march is grave,
and often silent and monotonous. The neja, on the contrary, is the tribe
with its women, its dogs, its cattle, its tents, and all the apparatus of
nomade life. Jt is not composed of isolated individuals, but of fainilies ;
or rather it is one great family on the tramp. There is, therefore, nothing
more lively and pleasant than to join a neja: ‘the barking of the dogs,
the bleating of the sheep, the shouting of the men in charge of them, the
crowing of the fowls, and the squalling of the children; all this variety of
noises, says M. Carette, ‘forms a rural harmony which is quite charming
in the otherwise lonely and silent wastes; and the traveller tinds a novel
source of amusement in witnessing the private labours of domestic eco-
nomy, simple cnough, but wearing a strange character when it is remem-
bered that they are all conducted on the back of the camel.’

Suddenly this noisy march becomes silent and pensive—the cavaliers
of the advanced guard perccive in the horizon the approach of another
tribe; they vive notice of it to the sheik, and immediately the ranks close
in. The gafala carries no standard, tor it fear: no enemy save the free-
booter; but cach neja is in alliance with one or other of the great parties
that divide the Desert, and regard as enemies all the tribes that favour the
opposite cause. As the two companies near each other, conjectures are
forming as to whether this is to be a greeting of friends or a collision of
foes. When they come within reach of the voice, the demand is made,
‘Who are yon?’ Jf they prove to be allies, they continue their journey
apart, on exchanging a salam; but if the name uttered is that of a hostile
tribe, they reply by blows, and a conflict ensues. The battle never con-
tinues beyond sunset, which is the signal for the suspension of hostilities.
If one of the parties is confessedly worsted, it avails itself of the night to
disappear; but if the issue is doubtful, the belligerents encamp on the field
of battle, and renew the conflict in the morning. The Arabs manifest much
more animosity in these collisions than in any skirmishes they have with
their European invaders, as none are more exasperated than brothers if
they happen to be enemies. In war against the infidels, they make pri-
soners ; but nv such thing is known in the mutual warfare of the tribes.
In the latter case, if an Arab becomes master of a living foe, he slays him
without mercy, anẹ hastens to lay the gory head at the feet of his wives,
who welcome it with insults and imprecations.

THe only exception to these barbarous usages is in favour of three
classes of people: maraboots are spared out of respect for their sacred
character; Jews and blacksmiths from mere contempt. We have not
been able to learn the origin of this feeling towards the trade of a black-
smith; but certain it is, that if a man be surrounded by enemies, and
despairing of escape, he has only to wrap his head in the hood of his
burnoose, and work with his arms, as if beating iron: they will not stain
their hands with the blood of so abject a wretch.

It rarcly happens that a traveller joining a neja has occasion to carry

his own tent and provisions. If he ha$ any acquaintance in the tribe, he
29

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

receives hospitality as a guest, and shares the tent and koukous* of his host.
This position secures to him all the respect and protection to which the
family entertaining him are entitled. Among the strangers who join cither
a gafala or ncja there are generally found some destitute creatures who,
on the day of departure, know not how the bread of to-morrow is to be
obtained; but they are under no disquietude—they trust in Providence,
and not in vain. Scarcely has the cavalcade started, but they find oppor-
tunities of making themselves useful, cither in loading or guiding the camels,
for which little services they receive their daily food; and it is all they
desire. Thus they accomplish a long journey without either expense on
the one hand or privation on the other. It is in this way that numbers of
poor husbandmen and labourers, not finding thcir toil sufficiently remune-
rated in the oases, make their way to the coast, where they form the most.
intelligent, the most industrious, and the best-conducted portion of the
community.

One cannot compare the habits and the wants of one of these camel-
drivers of the Desert with those of a E curopean wagoner, without being
struck with the contrast. The Jatter requires, as every night closes in, a
roof to shelter him, should it be only that of a hovel, and a bed, though
bat of straw; he necds nourishing food to support his strength, and this
necessity is rendercd more imperious by the use of alcoholic liquors. But
the Arab camel-driver asks no bed but the sand, no roof but the sky; a
fountain of pure water is his most luxurious tavern; his sustenance is
moistened meal; and for these he offers thanks to Heaven. Five times
a day he prostrates himself on the ground, laying his forchead on the sharp
stones of the Desert, if such be the paving of his route, and pours out his
prayers to his heavenly Guide, Protector, and Provider. What an example
for the well-fed bishops of Christendom!

Neither merchant-caravans nor those of migrating tribes travel at all
times or in all directions, so that isolated journeying is frequently neces-
sary. It is generally unsafe for a stranger to attempt this without the
protection of either a professional or amateur guide, belonging to the tribe
whose territory is to be crossed. He is acquainted with the safe hiding-
places and the good springs; hè knows when it is necessary to remain con-
cealed, and when he may proceed by daylight; and he has friends along
the route from whom he obtaius for his companion the same hospitality
that is extended to himself.

The provision for a journey consists of rouina, dates, and butter, if one
is desirous of Juxury; otherwise, the only ar ticle of f@bd is rouina. This
is simply grain (generally barley) roasted, ground, and pressed igto a
mezoued, which is a sheep’s skin tanned and dyed red. Another’ skin

called a shonna is required for water: it preserves its hair outside, and
receives a coat of tar within; water may be carried in it for ten days with-
out becoming the least spoiled. With the mezoued slung like a wallet on one
shoulder, and the shenna on the other, the Arab often travels immense
‘plains alone and on foot, without meeting human habitation for days
together, and this at the rate sometimes of forty miles a day; for he walks

* Cakes made of meal mixcd with various ingredients, according to the circum-
, @@ances of the eater.
ai"? 30

THE DESERTS OF AFRICA. 4

from the rising till the setting of the sun. When he wishes for a repést, the
table is soon spread’: he sits down beside a spring of water, if the placc
affords one, and lays on the ground a flap of his burnoose, which serves
both as dish and tablecloth. He throws into it a handful of rouina, which
he moistens with water, makes into a paste, and eats withont further
culinary process. He then,puts his hands together to form a cup, drinks,
and pursues his way. A mezoued full of rouina wili support him twenty-
four days.

It must be confessed that our knowledge of the deserts, as well as of the
interior of Africa, is still very imperfect; and while we render due homage
to the courage of those martyrs to science who have from time to time
ventured into the trackless wastes, and have in few instances lived to
return, it must be admitted that the field is too wide and too ungenial
to be explored by any such individual and partial researches as have
yet taken place. lt is to be apprehended that in some—perhaps in many
cases—general inferences have been drawn hastily and incorrectly from
particular facts; aud the sufferings which Europeans have undergone in
“their venturous excursions may have led them to view things through a
distorted medium, and to represent them in snech a manner as rather to
maguify than diminish the distance which divides us from them. It is not
enough to be courageous; we should endeavour to turn our courage to
good account by*directing it in wisdom; and before throwing ourselves
into a region where so many lives have been sacrificed, it would be well to
know so much about it as to make our progress safe, and our observations
intelligent and useful. It has heen suggested by some who have become
personally and intimately acquainted with the Northern Sahara, or Land. of
Dates, that among the natives themselves might he found useful explorers
to prepare the way for European adventure. lv Tunis, Tripoli, and Alex-
andria, the points in which terminate three of the great commercial arteries
of Interior Africa, there are always to be found Arabs who have traversed
in every direction the whole country between HKgypt aud Gnrinea. We
might send such as these into the heart of Africa, to collect all the particu-
tars Which it is desirable to obtain: they are naturally enterprising travel-
ters and acute observers of vatural phenomena; and their native instincts,
properly directed, might yield us an immense fund of information at a very
trifling cost. They might be commissioned to bring specimens of all the
natural productions, first of the Northern Sahara, then of the Central, and,
lastly, of Interior Africa; of the plants, the grain, the shells, the stones,
the fruit of different kinds, and stuffs of various fabric. They might be
instructed to count the houses of a town, the tents of a tribe, the camels of
a caravan; and thus should we have accurate data on the strength of the
population and the progress of commerce. They might be directed to
count the paces from one oasis to another, to follow the course of a
strcam, to measure a basin; and thus we should have geographical details.

‘I was curious,’ says M. Carette, ‘to asccrtain by experiment how far
these rovers of the Desert might, be transformed into deputy traycllers,
and the result even surpassed my expectations. I gave a scientific com-
mission for a distant part of the Date-Country to an intelligent but illi-
terate Arab belonging to one of those Saharian tribes which make the

most extensive circuit in their annual migrations. His instructions were
ol,

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

confined to objects of natural history, geography, commerce, and statistics ;
but the child of the Desert spontaneously became an archeologist : having
met with a Roman inscription, he copied it as faithfully as he could, sup-
posing, according to the traditions of his country, that it contained some
important revelation which I should be able to expound.’

If it be asked whether the veracity of such agents could be depended
upon, it is answered that they would at least be as worthy of credence as
the generality of European travellers ; that is, quite as little prone to per-
version or exaggeration, and somewhat less liable to mistake or deception ;
but we could easily verify their testimony by despatching two successively
ona similar mission. If Europeans who understand the language of the
Arabs, and know how to humour their peculiarities, would take up their
position about ‘he skirts of the Desert, and employ themselves iu directing
uative explorers, and then collecting and comparing their reports, instead
of plunging themselves into the pathless wastes, where their religior. is
abhorred, their motives suspected, and their lives considered fair game,
we might soon have such a programme a» would open a well-defined ficld
fur European enterprise, whether commercial, scientific, or religious.

SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

HE pale, anxious face of a dying man, scarcely past the prime of life,
looked forth from the casement of a homestead on the sca-skirted
shore of Devonshire, just as the evening of a stormy day was falling
silently and sadly upon the fading landscape and the vast perturbed
Atlantic, over whose distant horizon the sunset clouds still threw a wintry
effulgence. A fair young girl stood near the sof upon which tue invalid
reclined, vainly striving to “dinaipate, with broken words of love, the dark
fancies of a sprit which stubbornly rebelled against the decree that he
knew had irrevorably gone forth, ‘Nearer—nearer to me!" he faintly
murmured, after a long apa wisffal gave at the thear and melancholy scene
without. ‘Let me whl ous focnaw. feel your sweet breath upon my
check, the warm pressure of yeu antte hand in mine. Darkness is falling
upon all things, as upeu wwe; bit the care. will reawaken in the smile of
the new dawn, and again put on bhi robe of fight and flowers, whilst 1 can
seareely dare to hope that I shall safely ferry over the dark waters which
roll between me and the retreating light of life!" As he spoke, a stropg
gleam of parting sunlight burst vpon the wintry view, suddenly and briefly
Ulamining the thick woods and darkening ocean.

‘Phere po o Gu Phd ne Heaven,’ whispered the weeping gir], as she
stooped to lor che pale fchead of her parent, ‘and always hope’ The
dying man crazed with hut earnestness upon the changing scene. The
sts ante ecu, ers tint suceceded ; then darkness fell: but presently
the erimi stirs duoked forth, and Kai the full, clear moon rose high
aboy e aew shedding a silver glory over the earth, and throwing a
rudjiagt tac ross the dark and troubled waste of waters.

Ceray tee is light in Heaven!’ murmured the invalid, with a faint
vale; a ta may be as you say, Lucy—hope, even tor me who have so
vear esely, so guiltily misused and squandered the high and precious
Wan a brief but great existence!’ Presently he added: ‘ But for your
sk dear child, I must no longer dally with the fleeting momens yet
renaining to me. Wheel me closer to the fire, and after listening to a
comession 1 have, I almost fear, too long delayed, pity, and, “ff you can,
forgive me.’ Lucy Gaston silently obeyed her father's command; and then,
kneeling on an ottoman by his side, and taking his wasted hands in hers,
looked up with patient attention and tenderggt compassion in his face.

The apartment in which they sat was evidently an artist's working-room.

No. 70. l

CHAMBERS’§ PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

There were numerous finished and unfinished paintings on the walls; and
on an easel there was one that, in the imperfect state in which the failing
hand of the limner had left it a fortnight previously, was easily seen, even
by the imperfect light which now reached it, to be a portrait of Lucy
Gaston. The sunny eyes of blue, the wavy, golden hair, the dazzling
purity of complexion, the sweet, almost infantine smile which parted the
coral lips, were unmistakably hers, transferred in a felicitous moment to
the canvas by the artist, to whom it hai evidently becn a labour of love.
He was now about to paint himself: let us hope as faithfully.

‘Forty-seven years,’ he began, ‘ will have passed on the 8th of February
next since your father, the first and only surviving child of William and
Rachel Gaston, was born at Leeds in Yorkshire. My parents carried on a
respectable regail business in that city. I was nut only deemed a remark-
ably handsome boy, but I carly displayed extraordinary precocity of intel-
lect; and my proud and indulgent father and mother, with well-meant but
injudicious, hurtful kindness, stimulated, instead of checking, the naturally
vain, impulsive, and, as I cannet now conceal from myself, utterly selfish
instincts and disposition of the son of their doting love. 1 was held to
possess genius; and that my parents, and the foolish people who counselled
them, believed ali-sufficient in itself to build up greatness, and would only
be dwarfed and crippled hy the diseipline of strict study and close applica-
tion. Strange, but too common error! As if weeds would not take root
in a rich untended soil, and absorb in their rank luxuriance the energy
which, wisely and vigorously directed, might bring forth fruits of worth,
and usefulness, and beauty. Especially in drawing and painting I was
held to manifest great capacity. I submitted with impatience, and this for
no great length of time, to the dry study of the rudimentary rules of art,
quite satisfied that being admittedly a genius—ill- understood word !—I
needed none of the mechanical aids and appliances necessary only for the
dull plodders whose feeble powers required such crutches. My libertine
and unguided pencil was held to be especially successful in caricature-——in
seizing upon the ridiculous, the awkward and absurd, and gibbeting those
weaknesses for the amusement of the fools and dastards of our acquaint-
ance. Nothing, as I have sadly proved, is so fatal to the generous deve-
lopment of youth as the habit of satire—of indulgence in puny, malicious
sarcasm. It generates a fecling of snecring superiority; a disposition to
search out and dwell upon the failings and weaknesses of people; and
gradually induces a disbelief in the existence of either nobleness or talent
out of self. It was thus I wasted the golden days of life, and at twenty-
one found myself the idol indeed of my parents, but contemned, slighted,
shunned, and—my evil disposition exulted in knowing —feared, by all the
good, the wise, the amiable, to whom the exercise of my reputed talents
had made me known. In reality, I was as ignorant and unskilful as I was
offensive and vain. A picture on a serious subject, which I bad the pre-
sumption $œ. send to London for exhibition, was returned with a criticism
s0 humjliatibg, and yet I felt so entirely, so mercilessly true, as almost to
drive me'mad. A sharp but brief illness followed, and when I recover ed,
the counsel of a man of sense—to whose advice I had previously listened
with lofty contempt—induced me to recommence the study of the rules

2

SIGISMUND TEMPLE. :

and principles of art. My father of course yielded to this new caprice. I
was sent to the metropolis, and placed in the studio of an eminent master,
uncontrolled, save during the hours of instruction and practice, by any
other guide than my own fierce will and unbridled passions. My parents,
whose faith in my coming and not far-off greatuess was illimitable as ever,
supplied me freely with money; and the consequence to a vain, impulsive
young man thus thrown into that vortex of folly and dissipation, may be
easily divined by men of the world, but not to be dreamed of or guessed
at by you, my pure and gentle child. 1 worked,’ continued Mr Gaston,
after moistening his lips with lemonade —‘ I worked carnestly, but only by
fits and starts, and I advanced but slowly in knowledge of my art, com-
pared with the proficiency 1 speedily acquired in the usages’ and maxims
of a depraved society. Incessant applications for money, under one lying
pretext or another—nay, Lucy, it is the right, the only word to use—were
received by my parents, and always complied with, though latterly the
simple confiding creatures hinted at difficulties in supplying my increasing
wants. This had gone on for several years, till at last a cridis in my life
arrived. I was introduced by a well-connected fellow-student, who knew
little of, my habits, to the house of Captain Austin of the Royal Navy,
who, with his unmarricd daughter, resided at a pleasant habitation about
a mile beyond Hampstead. Caroline, auother daughter, had been some
months previously married to a Mr Fanshawe, the presumptive heir to a
barony, though not one of the richest in the pecrage. ‘I never saw her, but
she was reputed to possess the too often fatal gift of beauty ia a still
higher degree than her sister, vour mother, swcet onc. You remember
your mother, Lucy ?’

t Faintly, imperfectly. You know I was not five years old when she was
taken from me. Yet often in my dreams I hear a gentle voice, whieh I
know to be hers, calling me by name, and see again her pale, marble face,
and beautiful but mournful eyes, bending over me with watchful tensher-
ness’

‘It was I who quenched the joyous light of those sad eyes, and chilled
the warm current of eloquent blood that once mantled those pale cheeks ;’
interrupted Mr Gaston with sad emphasis. ‘I who—— But I must
check this flood of bitter memories, or what I have to say will, I, fear,
remain unspoken. I fell desperately in love with Lucy Austin; the feeling
was mutual; and I ultimately succeeded, well knowing as I did that her
father had high.r, more ambitious views for her, in inducing her to consent
to a private marriage. A few weeks of bewildering happiness fled past on
lightning wings; then the thunder burst, and the bricf dream was dissolved
for ever! Suspicion of what had occurred was communicated to Captain
Austin by the student who had introduced me to his louse, who at the
same time placed in his hands intelligence as yet tuknown to me concern-
ing my father. In an agony of apprehension, Captain Austin flew to his
daughter’s room, broke open her writing-desk, and speedily convinced
himself of the truth of his informant’s report. His dismay and rage were
extreme. Your mother was from home; and upon me, who’entered the
house a short time after the discovery was. made, the first burst. of. the
tempest fell, Every epithet of opprobrium that contempt could invent and
hate express was hurled at me. I replied only by a disdainful =“ till

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

Captain Austin threw a newspaper he was holding in his hand towards me,
aceompanying the act by a few rageful, startling words. 1 glanced over it:
« William Gaston of Leeds, ironmonger, bankrupt.” The words swam
before my eyes; my brain reeled, and I staggered blindly out of the house,
still pursued by the maledictions of the enraged father. I procured a
coach, hastened home, and there found a letter which confirmed the fatal
news. ` William Gaston, whom I had represented tu my wife and others
as a wealthy merchant, was hopelessly insolvent, unless, indeed, the still
deceived, still confiding old man wrote, ‘I could soll two or three of the
great pictures IJ had painted;” in which case an arrangement might, he
thought, be effected! I raved with frantic passion and remorse, and
an impulse to rid myself of shameful life was only checked by the arrival
of your mother. Her father had thrust his disobedient child from his door ;
and she, poor, stricken dove, hastened at once to the haven of her husband's
arms, and, deceived as she had been, still whispered in his ears her woman’s
spells of home, and peace, and love.

‘A bleak@uture was before us,’ resumed the sick man, as soon as the
choking grief which his narrative excited in Lucy Gaston had subsided to
a calmer sorrow; ‘but with persevering, steady effort it would soon have
brightened, and every difficulty have been overcome. J, alas! was only
capable of fitful, spasmodic exertion: the slightest failure or disappointment
chilled and disheartened me. J] struggled fechly, because without hope or
confidence, and soon abandoned the contest in despair. My father, by
the kindness of his creditors, who greatly respected him, and justly
imputed his insolvency to my criminal extravagance, was enabled to
recommence business ina small way. He, therefore, and my mother, were
so far provided for; but how could 1, whispered my selfish heart, burdened
by a wife, aud soon, possibly, by a numerous family, hope to retrieve the
wasted years, and cmerge from the slough of poverty in which I was
plunged? An unexpected communication enabled me to effect the purpose
I brooded over with some show of human feeling. Captain Austin, wearied
by the remonstrances of his eldest daughter, who had some time previously
become Lady Fanshawe, and mother of the Honourable Caroline Fanshawe,
your cousin, caused it to be intimated to us that he would allow my wife
two hundred and fifty ponnds a year, on condition that she separated from
me, Neither he nor Lord Fanshawe, who I believe contributed the largest
portion of the money, would hear of assistance being rendered to us on any
other terms. J insisted that the offer should be accepted; your mother
yielded a compelled assent, and I never saw her more. It is useless,’ con-
tinued Mr (aston after a painful interval of silence, ‘to dwell upon my
afterlife. Ultimately 1 reached Italy—Rome; and after a time succeeded
in attaining a sufficient degree of excellence as a painter, to insure myself a
comfortable, or I might say, a handsome subsistence. J was liberally
patronised by British visitors to the Eternal City; and had I known that
any one belonging to me would have been spared me—that you, Lucy,
lived to cheer and bless existence, I might perhaps have in some degree

ieved the crimes and follies of the past, or at all events, the bitter
thought that T am leaving you unprovided for, friendless—your fine nature
uncultivated, undeveloped, and exposed, with the rare beauty yon iu-
herit from your mother, to a thousand perils you would not, but for that
4

SIGISMUND TEMPLE. ‘

perilous gift, encounter. But I knew it not. I had left no trace of my
whereabout; and it was only through the newspapers which I have shewu
you that I learned the deaths of father, mother, wife, long after they
occurred. Your death, in childhood, was, as you know, by some unintelligible
mistake, recorded in the same paragraph that announced your mother’s :
this I believe is still Lord Fanshawe’s impression, for Captain Austin sur-
vived his daughters, who died within a short time of each other, by a few
weeks only. Success had come too late—even for self: my heart was
withered, and gradually but surely the springs of life gave way. Weari-
ness of all things beneath the sun had worked itself into the warp and woof
of my being, and a melancholy which nothing could cheer or lighten settled
heavily upon both heart and brain. In my despair, I sought relief from the
discipline and expiatory penances of the Roman Catholic Church—-vainly
sought it. The pious homilies and -exhortations with which my ghostly
counscllors sought to reanimate my bruised and wearied spirit, were profit-
less as bread placed in a dead man’s mouth. I was dying, lingeringly and
hopelessly, when eight months since a chance-meeting with a relative of
Captain Austin revealed the probability of your existence. He at least
had seen you months after the date of the newspaper paragraph. Lt was a
gleam from Paradise! I hastened home with frantic speed; found, clasped
you in my arms, and read the holy and biessed letter of forgiveness, pity,
love, whieh your sainted mother requested should be placed in the wan-
derer’s hands the instant he returned to his abandoned home! But those
divine ministerings to a mind discased came too late; and yet but a few
days, hours rather, and I shall have passed to my Jong home, and you-—
Alas! alas!" ,

The agitation of the invalid Jrowned his feeble utterance, and for many
minutes no sound was heard in tue apartment but the quick sobs of the
parent and child weeping in each other's arms.

‘These worthy people,’ at length resumed Mr Gaston; ‘these Whistons
—Susan, as you call her, especially, and her cousin, Mary Crawford—are
very kind to you; and with them 1 think it probable you may always find
a home.’

‘Fear not for that, dear father. Susan and her cousin Mary have been
sisters to me; fond, proud, auxious sisters from my earliest remem-
branco.’

‘Ay! He has tempered the wind to the shorn lamb. But still the
‘time may come when even Susan's friendship will fail or '-——

‘Never!’ exclaimed Lucy Gaston.

‘Or not suffice, I should rather say. For this reason it is that I request
your heedful attention to what ] am now about to say. Your cousin, the
Honourable Caroline Fanshawe, bears a gentle reputation, and holds, I
have heard, her mother’s memory in great reverence. Several of that
mother's kind, sympathising letters to her less fortunate sister, you will
find in my writing-desk, enclosed with an explanatory note from me, in
an envelope directed to Lord Fanshawe. You will, should you need counsel
or assistance, forward that parcel to its address—or indeed immediately I
ain gone; for the society of these Whistons, kind and worthy as '——

A gentle knock. at the door interrupted hirm. It was Mrs Whiston,
Susan, to say that a priest—a Roman, hesitated the young woman, as if

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

announcing some terrific personage, was below. ‘He came,’ she added,
‘on horseback, and says he was sent for.’

‘Quite right,’ said Mr Gaston with a sad, feeble smile. ‘Ask him to
walk up. Kiss me, Lucy. I will ring for you soon after this visitor is
gone.’

The priest had left Vale Farm, after a long interview with his penitent,
for'more than half an hour, when Lucy Gaston, surprised and impatient
at not being summoned, softly entered her father’s apartment, who, she
concluded, must have fallen asleep. Ifis attitude, and the long wicks of
the candles, placed on a low table by his side, confirmed this impression.
The tight of the candles shining full upon the sleeper’s face, as he lay
calmly reclined upon the couch, gave it, she thought,‘an unearthly pallor,
and she noiselessly approached to remove them. Gently she bent down
over that erring; but oh! how fondly, frecly-forgiven parent! Iler warm
lip touched his; instantly a piercing scream ran through the house, and
Lucy Gaston was found a minute afterwards by Mrs Whiston and Mary
Crawford, fainting, and almost insensible, upon the dead body of her
father, which she wildly clasped.

Mr Gaston, in compliance with his own carnest request, was buried in
the Catholic chapel of the neighLouring town, m a tomb excavated in
front of the sanctuary. The funeral, perhaps for effect, took place on the
evening of the sixth day after his decease, and the building was crowded
by persons attracted by the unusual ceremony. The novel and imposing
service, the profusion of lights, the perfume of the incense, the deep tones
of the organ, fitfully broken and relieved by the choral wailings, the
exulting bursts, of the maes of requiem, and at intervals by the lone,
solemn voice of the officiating priest, combined with the heat of the atmo-
sphere, proved too much for Lucy Gaston, and she would have fainted
but for the pungent essences which Mary Crawford, who, with Mr and
Mrs Whiston, accompanied her, plentifully administered. Her bonnet
and veil had been removed, and she had partially recovered, when the
lowering of the coftin to its tinal resting-place caught her attention. She
sprang impulsively forward, threw herself on her knees beside the grave,
and with clasped hands and streaming eyes ejaculated a fervent prayer to
God, quite unconscious of the profound sympathy and admiration which
her attitude and seraph countcnance, strongly illumined by the lights of
the sanctuary, and mantled with a profusion of golden hair, excited in the
hushed and crowded auditory. Mary Crawford recalled her by a whisper
to a sense of her position. She rosc hurriedly to her feet, shrank back out
of sight behind her friends; and the ceremony soon afterwards terminated. ,

Amongst the number of the curious whom the pomp of the serviee had
attracted to the chapel, were two gentlemen, whose dress and carriage
marked them to be persons of condition. One, the eldest, might be about
six-and-twenty years of age; the other was perhaps three years younger.
td were brothers; but there was a striking difference in their personal

3. The eldest was fair-complexioned and light-haired; and,
ahoash handsome, had somewhat of an effeminate look. The younger
gentleman's: complexion, cast of features, and dark, brilliant éyes, intimated
a mixture of more southern blood; and his figure, though elegantly formed

as that of bis brother, was more vigorously knit together.
6"

SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

‘She is the daughter of the man to whom they have been paying such
extraordinary funeral honours,’ said the youngest of these gentlemen,
rejoining bis brother, whom he had quitted fur a few minutes on leaving
the chapel. ‘Miss Lucy Gayton, or Gaston: her father was a painter, and
her abode is at Vale Farm, distant from this town about five miles.’

‘Did you ever, Sigismund, see so angelic a countenance ?’ asked the elder
brother as they walked on.

‘ Humph! Yes, Arthur: that of the superb Caroline is, I think, supe-
rior, though certainly of quite another order of beauty.’

‘Quite. And what a softening charm the eloquent sorrow of the eyes
threw over that beautiful face P

‘True,’ replied the gentleman addressed as Sigismund, in a tone slightly
moqueur. ‘An effect similar to that produced on the Queen of Flowers—

———* When o’er the rose
A veil of inoss the angel throws.’

But come, here is the carriage; let us away, or Marion will wonder what
has become of us.’ i

These-young men, brothers of Sir Edward Temple, Baronet, of Grosvenor
Square, and Temple House, Somersetshire, were on a visit to their sister,
Marion ‘Temple, who usually resided during the winter months in Devon-
shire for the benefit its mild climate and temperature affurded her delicate
health. She was staying with the family of the Nev. Juhn Benton, and an
hour’s smart drive brought them to the yveuerable rector’s door. They
loth returned to London a few days after Mr Gaston’s funeral; and any
further inquiries Mr Arthur Temple might feel disposed to make respecting
the beautiful vision of the chapel, vere uec = postponed to a future and
more conveuient time.

The seasons in their change flew past. Spring had once more strewed
the earth with flowers; summer laughed amidst the streains, and fields, and
woods; autumn yiclded her rich harvests to the sickle; and rough honest
winter, with his no less genial frosts aud snows, was again rapidly
approaching. No incident of any importance had occurred during this
varied miracle at Vale farm. Lucy Gaston still dwelt with her attached
friends. How, indecd, was it possible she could think of leaving Susan!
Susan, who had been her playmate, protectress, friend from childhood—
Susan, who had positively refused to marry honest, good-tempered, excel-
lent John Whiston, the owner of more than three hundred acres of arable
and pasture land, amply stocked, and in high cultivation, unless it was dis-
tinctly understood that dear Lucy should be considered as absolutely one
of the iamily. Leave her and Mary Crawford for her grand cousin, the
Honourable Caroline Fanshawe, even supposing, which was not at all likely,
she would be willing to receive her—impossible! All parties concurred in
this view of the case; and it was unanimously agreed that the notion of
Lucy Gaston leaving Vale Farm, except, indeed, as the wife of a nobleman,
or rich squire at the very least, was altogether ridiculous and absurd.

The marriage of the beautiful orphan, if not wich & positive nobleman or
landed squire, with a young, handsome, rich, fashionable gentleman, became,
as the year waned, a settled conclusion. Mr Arthur Smythe, who i been

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

lingering fer several weeks about the farm, under the pretence of shooting,
and whose manners were so elegant and gentlemanly, had at last proposed
for Lucy’s hand, and been blushingly accepted. Honest John Whiston
satisfied himself that Mr Smythe possessed an income of fifteen hundred a
year, derived from the funds; no possible objection could therefore, he
thought, be made to the match: and preparations for the wedding imme-
diately commenced, lt was also agrecd, although Mr Smythe had yielded
the point with manifest reluctance, that Mary Crawford should accompany
Lucy, and live with her as companion for, at all events, the first twelvemonth;
and Lucy promised to visit Vale Farm at least twice a year; so that the
separation would, aftor all, Mrs Whiston strove to persuade herself, he only
partial; a hope her more keen-sighted cousin did not share. Mr Smythe
would, she believed, gradually withdraw his wife from all intercourse witls
her country friends. Mary Crawford, however, kept her opinions to her-
self. Mr Smythe was beloved of Lucy, and her own perhaps unreasonable
suspicions and half-dislike of the bridegroom went for nothing, and ought
not, she felt, to be expressed.

Yes, the graceful manners, the refined homage, the honied accents of the
youthful and handsome sportsman, had kindled into life and form the
hidden mystery of love, sleeping till then in the pure depths of Lucy’s
calm and gentle spirit. Was he capable of appreciating the priceless
treasure thus revealed, and awaiting his acceptance; or would he, with
man’s careless vanity and disdainful caprice, look with indifference upon
tho prize which perchance the cagerness and fervour of pursuit had merely
invested with an adventitious and temporary charm? Momentous questions
these that would have instantly arisen in the minds of a father or mother,
quicksighted to the workings of human passion, and conversant with the
ways of men and of the world! Lucey Gaston had lost those guides; and
she had no other counsellor or guardian than her native purity of heart,
her gentle dignity of unsuspecting innocence, her innate pride of maidenly
reserve—celestial visitants! and all-putent, too—on the one perilous con-
dition that they are so intimately associated with, and regardful of their
votary and exemplar, as never to be careless of their charge, or slumber
for an instant at their posts! It prov cd so with Lucy Gaston; and however
light or trivial the motive which first induced Mr Arthur Smythe to while
away the unhecded hours in the society of the young rustic beauty, he
ultimately became enthralled to a degree he bad not perhaps imagined to
be possible; and the result, as I have stated, was the offer of his ‘hand to
the humble, unportioned maiden, and its grateful, blushing acceptance.

Marion Temple had returned with the fall of the year to Devonshire, and

again taken up her abode at the Rev. Mr Benton’s, distant about eleven
miles from Vale Farm. Her brother, Mr Arthur ‘Temple, accompanied her;
and about a week previous to the day named for Lucy Gaston's union with
Mr Smythe, Mr Sigismund Temple arrived on a flying visit to his relatives.
After a sojourn of two days only, the new-comer announced his intention
of réturning at once to London. He was, Marion Temple saw, deeply
offended with his brother Arthur, who, for some reason studiously concealed
from her, had peremptorily refused Sigismund’s earnest es that he

would accompany him back to town. 3
: Migr ‘ mentally soliloquised Sigismund Temple, whilst waiting on the

SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

morning of his departure for his brother’s appearance in the breakfast-room
of the rectery—‘ Idiot! And yet his headstrong folly concerns me but in
a remote, improbable contingency. 1 would, however, he did not marry jugt
yet. The fatal taint which Sir Edward has, it is thought, inherited from
their mother—Marion, too, I fear is doomed—lurks very ‘probably i in his
veins; but should he have issue by this marriage, my hopes—hopes did I
say?’ continued the young man, with an audible ouiburst of remurseful
grief, as he rose from his chair, and paced agitatedly to and fro the apart-
ment—‘ hopes! Is Nature's milk so turned to gall within me that I hope
for the deaths of brothers whom I loved so well, till I knew that the unjust
and cruel laws of entail and primogeniture had beggared me to enrich them—
in succession enrich them—for Edward, 1 think, already stands on the verge
ofthe grave! Alas! it is but too true. T should lic to my own heart if I
denied it; but is the blame mince? After all,’ he presently added in a calmer
mood, ‘ they are but my halt-brothers: they have no share in the vigorous
maternal life which’

A distant step arrested the current of his thoughts, and when Arthur
Temple entered, he had resumed the listless, sardonic attitude and expres-
sion which he usually exhibited. ‘After a few words on indifferent subjects,
Sigismund Temple again endeavoured to dissuade his brother from the rash
step he was contemplating. It was labonr thrown away: he could not
make the slightest Oprea oi with all his subtlety and sarcasm.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘if Wilful must to water, Wilful mast drench; but I
again repeat, that if J were Arthur Temple, with only one frail life between
‘me and an ancient and wealthy baronetcy, it should be something more
than a pretty face that would tempt me into the noose of matrimony.”

‘Pretty face! J tell you, Sigismund, that Lucy Gaston is one of the
gentlest, purest, mostggharming and beautiful of women, and no more
ambitious of wealth or station than of a convent. She would have
accepted my offer had I been poor and dependent as joyfully as now.’ *

‘Arthur, you are a But I forbear; it is, I know, uscless arguing
with a man labouring under the insanity of passion. You are preparing
a future of misery not only for yourself but this poor girl. Before twelve
months are past the refined elegance and courtly grace of such women as
Lady Alice Merivale will return upon your imagination with a brilliancy
and power infinitely heightcned by contrast with the mindless rustic who
has temporarily caught your fancy ; ; and you will bitterly as vainly repent
your present mad infatuation.’ |

‘That woman, Sigismund, is an incarnation of mere worldliness. Sho
has neither heart nor soul.’

‘ As you please; but she has at least a charming person, and @ sparkling,
cultivated wit; and to me it appears rather a proof of good sense than
necessarily of. heartlessness that she some two years since looked coldly
‘upon the advances of a young gentleman who, unless his élder brother dies
without male issue, is condemned to vegetate upon a poor fifteen hundred
a year. Perhaps,’ added the speaker, looking keenly in his brother's face,
and speaking. in a low and meaning tone—pethaps had Sir Edward's
health been at that time in the fragile state in which it is now feared to be,
the lady would have been less reserved and cruel.’ -

‘it oe useless, Sigismund, to recall such memories; they have tien

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOE THE PEOPLE.

within me, and go have the pulses of ambition. With the beautiful and
ductile creature with whom my fate will shortly be united I shall calmly

ide down the stream of life, undisturbed by and heedless of the jostlings,
the puerile. distinctions of a world for which I feel neither sympathy nor
respect,’

‘A dream, Arthur—a silly, womanish dream, to be followed, be sure of
it, by a very bitter awakening. But enough: we part friends, I hope?’

‘You persist in not remaining then?’

‘Certainly. I should only involve myself, without in the slightest
degree serving you, were I present at the ceremony.’

t I do not comprehend your meaning.’ :

‘It is nevertheless plain enough, if not to you, whose head is amongst
the stars, or rather clouds, to me, whose attention is necessarily fixed on
mundane things. You, at least, are independent of Sir Edward Temple to
the extent of fifteen hundred a year; and if the elder obstacle were to
precede you to the world of shadows’

‘Shame on you, Sigismund!’

‘ Be it so: I am at all events no hypocrite; and this system of beggaring
every child but one in order to maintain what is called family dignity, is
scarcely one adapted to cultivate fraternal affection. You, I repeat, have
a revenue, though perhaps an insufficient one, whilst I unfortunately have
no dependence save on the parliamentary and social influence of the present
head of the House of Temple to quarter me in an cligible manner upon the
public revenues. You know Sir Edward’s pride of birth and ancestry, and
cannot therefore be blind to the folly I should commit by in any manner
appearing to forward or countenance a mésallicnce, the discovery of which
will so terribly enrage him; and he may, spite of appcarances, live many
years yet. Besides, added Sigismund Temple after a few moments’
silence, and with an exaggerajion of his usual sardonic sneer, ‘the fewer
the witnesses to the ceremony the better, perhaps; aud it may be so
esteemed by you some of thesc days. ‘The retention of the name ot
Smythe, too, will be well.’

‘The assumption of the name of Smythe was an accident—a caprice with-
out motive; and I shall probably reassume my own’

‘You had better not. Take my advice in this, at least.’

‘Sigismund, envy and discontent have not only soured your once frank
and joyous temper, but perverted your sense of right and wrong.’

‘Say rather, brother mine, that they have in a slight degree sharpencd
my wits. Younger brothers are necessarily somewhat precocious. It
is only your elder born who can afford to remain fools en permanence!
Good-by; I shall at all events keep your secret.’ The brothers shook
‘heads, and Sigismund Temple was soon on his way back to London.

Arthur Temple remained for a considerable time after his brother had
left the apartment where the foregoing colloquy took place in a state of
profound meditation. ‘Smythe !—Temple!’ he at last audibly murmured—
‘What is there, after allin a name? The one will do to conjure with as
well as the other; and after all, as Sigismund says—— At all events, I
am very slightly indebted, and. owe but scant allegiance to the proud
family name. The fifteen hundred a year which I inherit descends from
„DY — j and yet I have often thought how delightful it would be to

SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

witness Lucy's sweet, artless expression of grateful wonderment when
informed that she was about to marry into the distinguished family of the
Temples—to be sister-in-law to the magnificent Sir Edward Temple, whose
grand fétes and splendid entertainments sometimes afford a paragraph to
the county paper! Yet that would not be prudent! We must, as we
value peace of mind, contentment of heart, shun comparisons of our state
with his. Better to draw a veil before the grandeur, be it even that of a
brother, that would but mock our own comparatively poor means of life.
Yes! I will certainly take Sigismund’s advice in this one instance: the
name of Smythe, which I carelessly, capriciously assumed, shall be re-
tained, unless, indeed’ The young man’s face flushed crimson; he
hurriedly rose and walked to and fro the room, as if the quick pulsation
of his veins forbade for the moment repose or immobility of body—‘ unless,
indeed, Sigismund’s insinuation, that Sir Edward’s health is fatally under-
mined should prove well founded: then, indeed, to salute my beautiful
Lucy as Lady 'Temple—as the mistress of Temple House— of the mansion
in Grosvenor Square—as the wife of a baronet of ancient descent and
princely wealth—that indeed were a proud moment in both our lives—that
would be God of Heaven!’ added the conscience-struck young
man, his voice suddenly falling to a trembling whisper—‘am I, too, an
cager speculator in the chances of a dear brother’s death ?—do T count
grudgingly the sands of life allotted to a son born of the same mother as
myself ?—have the words of Sigismund but wakened an echo slumbering in
my own heart—but swept away the illusive colouring from the mirror
in which I before glassed myself, and shewn me my true self? Terrible
questions, which I know not how to answer!’ He ceased to speak, and
shudderingly covered his face with his hands, as if he would shut out the
appalling, self-revealing spectre which dimly flitted past. It was some
time before he perfectly recovered his usual calmness: when he had done
so, his thoughts appeared to gradually fall into the channel they had first
taken on his brother Sigismund’s departure ; and by the slight interjectional
comments which escaped him, he was evidently again pondering the
expediency of revealing his true name and condition to his promised bride.
The decision arrived at was that suggested by his brother; for, as he léft the
apartment to rejoin his sister Maricn, he muttered: ‘Yes; Smythe let it be
—for the present at all events. 1 can, should occasion arise, easily reas-
sume my proper fesignation; whereas Bat au jour le jour.’

On the appointed day Arthur Temple was accordingly married to Lucy
Gaston in the name of Smythe. Immediately after the ceremony the
newly-wedded pair set off for Holly Lodge, three or four miles out of
Bath, accompanied by Mary Crawford and John Robson, Mr Temple's
groom, who, with Mr and Mrs Whiston, had witnessed the ceremony.

Sigismund Temple arrived in Grosvenor Square in barely sufficient time
for dinner, to which a small but distinguished party had been invited. The
Honourable Caroline Fanshawe, young, amiable, and of dazzling beauty and
imperial presence, was'there, accompanied by her father Lord Fanshawe.
The queenly head, set magnificently upon brilliant shoulders from which the
Roman purple might be fitly draped, the exquisitely chiselled nose and
mouth, the lustrous purity of ‘her complexion, the splendour of her fine

ip wi tl
"iy :

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

dark eyes, tho wavy luxuriance of her glossy hair, her finely-moulded person
and regal carriage, formed a royalty of beauty which compelled the homage
of the surprised beholder as to a being of diviner attributes than belong to
earth. This lady Sigismund Temple had frequently met, but had lately
resolved to shun, as a person dangerous to his peace—he, a younger brother,
and she, highly connected, but by no means rich—for the Fanshawe estates,
strictly entailed on heirs-male, went, at her father’s death, to a nephew—and,
as he thought, as aspiringly ambitious as himself. On this evening, how-
ever, she, on his appearance in the drawing-room considerably before the
other gentlemen, manifested a graciousness of demeanour, before which
his prudent resolves vanished like morning mist before the snn. Fas-

` einated, intoxicated by smiles which played like summer lightning about

his heart and brain, and the rich caressing tones of her magical voice, he
yielded unresistingly to the witching influence he had wisely determined
to avoid; and it was with a feeling almost of resentment that he found
himself interrupted in his perilous ¢¢fe-a-t¢te by the entrance of Sir
Edward Temple, Lord Fanshawe, and other gentlemen from the dining-
room.

» Sir Edward, who, I may remark, was an eminently handsome, as well as
a very honourable, well-meaning man, appeared in jocund spirits. IIe
looked somewhat pale and delicate, but he had been for several weeks free
from pain; and his physician had not only pronounced him convalescent, but
had intimated « rather positive opinion, that should no untoward change
occur, which he did not anticipate, the tendency which had been feared
towards cousumption was effectually arrested. Agitation must, however,
he declared, be strictly avoided, or fatal and immediate consequences would
in all probability result. The character of Sir Edward’s illness was known
only to his medical adviser, and partially by his brothers. The outer world
only knew that he had been ailing somewhat, and was now essentially
recovered, Sir Edward, who, as much as possible, closed his own eyes to
the danger in which he stood, would have resented as an unpardonable
offence, any report that he inherited his mother’s fatal malady.

The baronet approached Miss Fanshawe, and the pulsation of Sigismund
Temple's heart was momently arrested, as he observed the smiles which he
had for the last half hour monopolised, bestowed with even yet more play-
fully caressing charm upon his elder brother. Sir Edward felt thcir
influence, and his countenance lightened with unusual géiety and joy.

‘I do not know,’ he said, ‘when I have felt so light of heart. One—
certainly not the especial reason which lifts me above the earth ’—the brief
glance of mutual intelligence did not escape Sigismund Temple— but one
cause of the exultation I feel is the excellent report Sigismund gives of
Marion’s health. It is a foolish fancy, or superstition, certainly,’ added the
baronet in a slightly disturbed tone, ‘but the belief clings to me—partly
perhaps, because we are thought to so much resemble each other, or because
we have been till lately so constantly together—that our lives are bound up
with each other, and will end together.’

‘Surely a very absurd fancy,’ remarked Miss Fanshawe.

‘Yes; one cannot reason upon it. You remember the German astrologer,
Sigismund ?’

‘The German cheat and swindler, you mean.’

m BR.

SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

‘It may be so. And yet for all that reason or philosophy may urge, I
cannot help feeling rejoiced, for my own sake as well as that of Marion,
that she is recovering.’ e

The lady glanced towards Sigismund, and ie thought a faintly ironical
smile curled her beautiful lip, as she said: ‘And, pray, what may have been
the precise text of the astrologer or cheat’s prediction ?’

‘The usual jargon,’ replied Sigismund ‘Temple, rising as he spoke. ‘The
lines of life in Marion and Sir Edward rescmbled each other, ending I think
in the same house, or some such gibberish.’

‘That is a prophecy which, under certain circumstances, might realise
itself.’ observed Miss Fanshawe; and a shade of anxiety or concern passed
over her brilliant countenance.

‘I trust not,’ said Sir Edward Temple, with a proud and grateful smile;
‘but this is not atime for such themes. Shall we have a little music?
Perhaps you, Caroline, will again favour us with the charming melody you
sang the other evening?’

Miss Fanshawe rose in compliance with the baronet’s request, and Sir
Edward led her to the piano.

‘Caroline!’ muttered Sigismund Temple, with white quivering lips—
‘Caroline! This, then, is the mcanmg of her condescending graciousness.

iverything is his—imperial beauty, prineely wealth, whilst I’——

The tones of the siuger’s fine contr’alto voice broke in upon his bitter
musings. He permitted himself to drink in a few bars of the entrancing
strain; and then, as if fearful of trusting himself longer there, hastily left
the apartment, and did not return during the evening.

The brothers again inet on the following day at dinner. They were
alone; and when the servants had retired, Sir Edward, breaking a pause of
some duration, said abruptly: ‘ Caroline What is the matter, Sigis-
mund? You quite startle one.’

‘ Nothing—nothing! A slight spasm; nothing more.’

t Where, dear Sigismund ?’ inquired the baronet anxiously. ‘Qn the
lcft side? It is there I frequently—not now, but some time ago—felt such
attacks, and Dr Bailey thought gravely of them. You should consult him :
he will be here in the morning.’

‘It is nothing, Edward ; proceed.’

t Carol:ne— Miss Fanshawe, I was about to say, felt surprised at your
abrupt depariure yesterday evening.’ l

‘Indeed!’

‘And still more so that I had not informed you of our engagement.
That pain again, Sigismund? you are suffering terribly. I will instantly
send for Dr Bailey.’ The baronet rose to touch the bell.

‘No, no; do not. It is passed already ; go on.’

‘She imagined you had known of my proposal and its acceptance. But
you have been absent during the last week, and I saw you but for a few
minutes before dinner yesterday. The marriage will not take plece just
yet: about May or June next, Lord Fanshawe suggests; and by that
time, I doubt not, all fear of a relapse of ill health will be past.’

‘Damnation! how hot and close the room is!’ fiercely exclaimed Sigis-
mund Temple, abruptly rising and throwing up one of the sashes. ‘One
can scarcely breathe in it.’ | |

ae

13

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

‘ Hot and close in January!’ said Sir Edward., ‘What are you talking

‘abont?’

His brother muttered an unintelligible reply, and left the room.
‘He iis certainly ill,’ thought the baronet; ‘and if not better in the
morning, Bailey shail see him.’

Holly Lodge, which Arthur Temple had prepared for the reception of
his wife, was a convenient and pleasantly-situated house; and its equipment
and embellishments, though excessively plain and simple in the eyes of the
husband, accustomed to the gorgeous furniture and decorations of his
paternal home, were magnificent in the estimation of the delighted bride,
who saw, in the various articles of clegance and luxury with which the
miniature drawing-room and her sleeping and dressing chambers were
profasely filled, new proofs of the devoted affection which had raised her
to such an unimagined height of grandeur. The simplest child, not only
in knowledge of the world, but in the arts by which beauty enhances its
value and secures its conquests, was this singularly beautiful girl. Her
almost infantine delight in the novelty of her position, in the fairy treasures
by which she was surrounded, and in the presence of her almost idolised
husband, was intense, unbounded ; and it was many days before a shadow,
a light, evanescent shadow, flitted past and for a moment dimmed the
young morning of her joy. One afternoon Mary Crawford found her
standing before a high cheval mirror, which reflected her charming person
at full length.

‘Do you think, Mary,’ she said, and there was a tone of inexpressible
sadness in the gentle voice, ‘that Arthur, my husband, will one day love
me less than he does now ?’

The question struck a painful chord in the more observant Mary Cr: ae d's
bosom, and the sudden vibration prevented her from instantly replying.

Lucy looked anxiously in her face. ‘You do not speak?’ she said.

‘Is not that a sufficient answer ?' said Mary Crawford, recovering her
presence of mind, and pointing to the image in the giass.

‘I was just then thinking, Mary,’ was the reply, as the young wife
redirected her glance to the mirror, ‘that he must always love me.’

Therg was not the slightest conceit or vanity in the thought which
suggested this remark. Poor girl! she was but examining the strength and
brightness of the chain by which alone she felt she had compelled her
husband's affections, and could alone hope to retain them. Mary Craw-
ford kissed the blushing check, led her beloved friend and protégée to a
chair, took a seat beside her, and passing with old familiarity one arm round
her waist, said: ‘And what, dear Lucy, has occurred to put such strange
thoughts in your head?’

t Nothing—nothing, Mary, dear,’ was the reply, though a faint sigh
bubbled up and exhaled with the words. ‘N othing of moment; eth
has been reading to me, and—and '——

‘What; dearest ?’ |

‘I do mot, you know, Mary, quite ungerstand the grand poetry he so
aite to. yead ; but I love to listen to voice ; and to-day especially, it
sent ad silver, lulling melody, like the murmured music of a brook. amidst
‘the ees, and with its harmony I—I fell agigep.’

SIGISMUND TEMPLE. -

* And your husband was angry ?’

‘No, Mary, not angry—vexed, that’s all ; and he is gone out alone.’

Mary Crawford, with an affectation of cheerfulness she did not feel,
strove to laugh off the half-formed apprehensions of the ill-mated wife, and
for the time succeeded.

The golden dawn, the purple light of love, which, in the imagination of
Mr Temple, had for a brief space transformed the charming, gentle, but

‘untutored country girl into a divinity, before which he would be well
content, to sacrifice the pleasures, hunours, and rewards of the world in
which he was born, and a high place in which he believed himself, with the
aid of his influential relatives, able easily to attain, had gradually vanished
before the chilling influence of familiarity, the sober teachings of, disen-
ehanting possession. His brother’s prophecy had been accomplished even
before the time he had assigned for its fulfilment. As unjust now as
blindly infatuated before, Arthur Temple could find no charm, no solace,
in the meek gentleness, the patient submission, the devoted affection, of the
trusting woman he had sworn to love and cherish. Her simplicity wearied
—her ignorance disgusted—her silent reproaches irritated and enraged
him. He execrated the fetters in which he had madly bound himself, and
each succeeding day but added to their galling, maddening pressure. His
unfortunate wife-lhad not been long able to conceal from herself that she
was already, in the first blush and prime of wedded life, a widow in the
saddest, most grievous acceptation of the word—estranged from her hus-
band’s affections, divorced from his future and his hopes, and her heart
sank within her. But for the blushing hope, the tremulous vision, daily
more intense and vivid, of a beauteous pledge of renewed love and peace,
she must, she thought, have dicd. It came; and with it joy and hope,
rekindling the faded roses of her cheeks, and rendering back her old gaiety
of heart, her trustful tenderness for the father, forgiven in his son. „Mr
Temple seemed at first moved, softened, by the divine gift ; but a few days
sufficed to weaken, a few weeks to obliterate, the impression, and his manner
to his wife became cold, disdainful, repulsive as before.

1 wil) not dwe further on the cruel incidents of this most unhappy
marriage. A year had passed; it was once more January, when Mr
Temple received a letter from his brother Sigismund, written at Sir Edward
Temple’s instance, to request his presence at the celebration of the baronet’s

nuptials, so long delayed, with the Honourable Caroline Fanshawe. The
` nobe was. brief and curt, and appeared to have been hurriedly and negli-
gently scrawled, A postscriptum stated that Sir Edward was still ignorant
of the mésalliance he, Arthur Temple, had formed.

The resolution long meditated by Mr Temple was, upon the receipt of `
this intelligence, ai once adopted. An hour after it had been received, Mary
Crawford, who for a long time had been the medium through which the
wishes and commands of the husband had been conveyed to his wife, was
summoned to attend Mr Temple in the front apartment of the gYoundfloor.

‘I am about to leave this place,’ began Mr Temple, ‘ and it is not likely
that I shall very soon return.’

Will your absence be much longer than usual ? inquired his auditor,
observing that he hesitated. Mr Temple's very frequent absences at Rath
and other places had usually averaged about ten days. =

aig

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PLOPLE.

‘Much longer: indeed I intend breaking up this establishment, and it is
extrenrely improbable, therefore, that 1 shall ever return.’

‘Merciful God! Why, what do you mean, Mr Smythe? You cannot
intend to desert: your wife—your child? No, no; it is impossible. You
cannot be so base!’

‘Have the goodness to remember to whom you are addressing yourself,

said Mr Temple in his haughtiest tone and manner. He presently added :
‘It must have been for a long time clearly apparent ta you that your friend
Lucy and I are not suited to Sach other; that our tastes, feelings, associa-
tions, render us totally unfit for each other’s society. This at least I have
long and bitterly felt, and ] have therefore determined, and as much for her
happiness as my own, to leave her, and for ever.’
_ ‘Qh say not so—say not so! exclaimed Mary Crawford with passionate
entreaty. ‘The blow will kill her. Be patient but for a few months,
perhaps weeks: her health is gone, and she will not, I fear, trouble any one
long. Be merciful—patient-—till the grave has received her body, and the
blighted spirit has returned to Him who gave it

Whatever emotion of remorse the husband might have felt, he effectually
mastered snd concealed. ‘It is useless to waste words,’ he said; ‘my pur-
pose cannot be shaken’

‘Hark!’ suddenly exclaimed Mary Crawford: ‘I surely heard Lucy’s
step! And yet I left her asleep—such broken sleep, at least, as lately has
been hers.’ She took a candle from the table, and stepped swiftly but
softly to the door. ‘There was no one on the stairs, nor in the passage.
She did not think of looking into the adjoining room, separated only from
the front apartment hy slight folding-doors.

“J was mistaken,’ said Mary Cr awford, re-cnicring the room, and placing
the candle on the table. ‘Now, sir, proceed; and speak, if you please, as
softly as may suffice for the due cuforcement of your brave and honest
purpose.’

‘There need little more be said at present, rejoined Mr Temple. ‘1 shall
write in a day or two, and fully cxplain my views aud intentions. In the
meantime-aand this is the most painful part of the affa¥—you must pre-
pare Mrg@mythe as gently as you can to give up my son, who—— Ha!

eg ard Did you hear nothing ?’
‘J thought I did: a stifled scream or sob it seemed’ Mary Craw-
ford stepped once: More to the door, and looked out. Nobody was there.

‘Go on,’ she said; ‘no one hears you—but God t’

AI have nothing more to observe,’ he replied. ‘A properly-authorised
_ agent will be here in a few days, who will wind up and dispose of this
“establishment. Mrs Smythe will reside where she pleases, and of course
will reccive a sufficient sum to support her comfortably.’

‘You earry this matter with a bigh hand, Mr Smythe; and your unfortu-
nate wife must, I suppose, resign herself as she best can to your cruel will.
But at least you will, I trust, inform us whom and what are the family
_ into which Lucy Gaston has so unhappily intruded—a subject you have
“always carefully avoided? ‘This, in cammon justice, you are bound to do,
else death overtaking you, your wife will be without resource, or claim, or
kindred.’

Mr Temple smiled, and said so very improbable a contingency would be

18

SIGISMUND. TEMPLE.

duly provided for. ‘I have no further time to spare,’ he added, ‘as I
wish to leave Bath by the mail-train, and must therefore bid you at once
good-by.’

‘Then go, sir!’ replied Mary Crawford with wrathful vehemence; ‘and
may He, in whose temple you uttered the vows you have: wantonly and
infamously broken, avenge’

‘No—no—no !’ burst convulsively from the lips of the abandoned wife,
who, clad in her night-dress, and pale as marble, tottered through the
folding-doors, and threw herself upon Mary Crawford's neck. ‘Do not—
do not curse him, Mary, for my sake !°

Mr Temple was painfully affected. He hoped to have avoided an inter-
view with his wife, whom le could not but pity and respect, cold and dead
towards her as his selfish affections had become. He knew not what to
say; and a silence, save for the suffocating sobs of the two females, pre-
vailed for several minutes. At length Mr Temple said: ‘I was anxious,
Lucy ’

‘Leave me—leave me, sir!’ hurriedly, almost fiercely interrupted his
wife, her face still averted from him. Go—begone! We are true, aná
honest people, sir; and remember we do not want your money. Go—go!
[ would not that she cursed you, but berone!? And without turning her
head, she waved him impatiently with her hand towards the door.

Mr Temple hesitated for an instant; and then resolutely nerving himself
to go through with his predetermined purpose, left the apartment, and a
few minutes afterwards the house.

‘He is gone!’ exclaimed the wife, erecting herself froin the bent, listen-
ing attitude she had assumed. ‘He is gone; and now to bed. We may
be overheard here. You heard him say,’ she added, sinking her voice to
a deep whisper, ‘that he would have my child. We will disappoint him,
Mary! God has just shewn me how! Come—come—come !’ ie:

A terrible suspicion of Lucy’s sanity, as these words, accompanied by
a wild, triumphant expression of countenance, fell from her, arose in Mary
Crawford’s mind. She, however, yielded to the bereaved wife’s example
and carnestly-whispered injunction, and softly, seftly ascended the carpeted
stairs on tiptoe. Whatever project had glanced across the mother’s brain
remained undivulged, or at least unfulfilled, for delirium rapidly super-
vened ; and before a physician, hastily sammoned from Bath, arrived, Mrs
Smythe—Teimyle, IT should say—was in a raging fever.

Mr Arthur Temple had quite recovered his equanimity when he stepped,
at the Bath station, into a first-class carriage of the mail-train; and as he
was whirled along, he amused himself by calculating the chances’ and
‘probal<lities of the new life he had marked out for himself—one of poli-
tics, of active ambition, resulting in office, honours, substantial rewards—
when a sudden crash, a cry of terror and despair, an overwhelming’ sense
of dismay and horror, flashed upon him ; and he remembered nothing more
till he found himself in one of the gorgeous bedrooms of his brother's
house in Grosvenor Square. The collision of the train with a liggage-
truck near the Reading station had resulted in the instantaneous loss of
several lives, and such severe internal injuries to Mr Temple, that saving
his life was out of the question. Robson, whe travelled with him, was
unhurt, and had caused his master to be brought immediately to S

l

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

Fortunately Dr Bailey happened to be in Grosvenor Square when the
sufferer arrived ; and the intelligence was consequently broken gradually
and skilfully to Sir Edward Temple. Even thus communicated, it produced
a very distressing effect, and but for prompt appliances might have proved
fatal. The baronet was immediately confined to his bed, and never saw
his brother again in life, communicating only with him through Sigismund
Temple.

The first thought of the younger brother, on ascertaining the fatal nature
of the accident that had befallen Arthur Temple, was that Sir Edward’s
marriage would be necessarily deferred—he hoped for ever. A, natural
emotion of compassion succeeded, soon chased away by the thronging

hopes his eager imagination conjured up. The dazzling Caroline! abun-
dant wealth !—all this might now be his! Who knew?

For several days Arthur Temple writhed and tossed upon his bed of
down—the mild eyes, the kind voice, the gentle, sympathising hand-
pressure of his abandoned wife revisiting him in his troubled, fevered
dreams, only to mock him as with the mirage. At last the grim Tyrant
passed through the closed and muffled portals of the splendid mansion,
glided up the grand staircase, and entered the gorgeous chamber. Dr Bailey
and Sigismund Temple were in the room when the shadow of the view-
less victor fell upon the sick man’s face. The physician observed the sign,
and knew ‘its meaning, Ilie placed his fingers on the patient’s pulse: it
fluttered—sank —stopped; then came a brief rally, and all was over !

A few hours after this solemn event, Sigismund Temple was sitting alone
in his dressing-roum, with a foolscap sheet of paper closely written upon,
held loosely and carelessly in his right hand. His dark eyes were un-
usually vivid, and on his pale expressive fave a practised observer might
have read strange matters. ‘ Deathbed repentances!’ exclaimed the ex-
cited young man in a strange, low, beating voice—‘ deathbed repentances,
I have heard bishops preach, are seldom of any value—rarely do much to

repair the errors, sins, or crimes of a life. lt would not be seemly, he
added, whilst a bitter sneer curled his white, tinely-chiselled lips—‘ it would
not be seemly that Arthur’s tardy gencrosity or justice—exercised at my
expense, too, which makes it all the more pleasant—so suddenly resusci-
tated by the near view of a tomb yawning for himself, should. through my
instrumentality especially, be made to give the lie to so salutary and grave
a maxim. This paper now,’ he resumed, after a brief pause, ‘ written by
ine at his dictation, not only deprives me of fifteen hundred pounds per
annum which I else inherit-——that, however, were nothing, should another
frail life fall in—and reveals the existence of the now widowed wife, but
that of the son, the presumptive heir to the baronetcy, with its attendant
wealth. lt is therein the serpent-danger lies, which I ‘must crush—-crush—
crush—at any hazard’—-as he thus spoke, he fiercely crumpled up the
paper in his hands, as if at the moment he grasped the menaced peril ,by
the throat—‘ at any sacrifice! It was fortunate, he soon more calmly con-
tinued—‘ it was fortunate Bailey came in too late to witness the signing of
“the paper, or even to hear it spoken of. My good brother evidently, at the
last moment—thank Fortune, not before—doubted my good faith; but
Bailey could not read aright, as I plainly did, that last glance of agonizing
romana doubt, and entreaty. So far, then, Iam safe. Let me again,’
k

SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

said he, smoothing the paper carefully out—‘let me again peruse the pre-
cious document :—In the name of God, Amen.” It is really wonderful,’
continued Sigismund Temple with a mocking laugh— it is really wonderful
how the illusions and dreams of childhvod revisit men in their last Bours!
The bishops are quite right. The only valid faith is that of the pious
believer, who recognises God in life. In death, he is, if there be one, sure
to be self-revealed, and acknowledgment is puerile—absurd- —not to say
impious. This name,’ went on the sneering scoffer— this name, thus used,
confers then no character of sacredness upon the paper! But let me read
on:—“ I pive and bequeath unto my beloved wife” Beloved wife!
Why, this is mockery upon mockery! He surprised her affections—stole,
as it were, her heart away, to toy and sport with for a time; and, his pride
and fancy sated, cast and trampled it beneath his feet as a thing of naught
—and then, forsooth, when the world for which he abandoned her is
vanishing from his sight, she is his “beloved wife” again! Out upon such
hypocrisy ! he added, rising from his chair, deliberately tearing the paper
into strips, and consuming cach strip ata taper which stood lighted on the
table. ‘Out upon it! And that he should think, too, that I would be a
party to it! That assuredly is net the least amazing or amusing part of
ihe affar. He could scarcely, 1 think, ave read'my character so per-
fectly as I did his: it is certainly nothing new to find men indulging in
excessive liberality when the cost thereof is wo he defrayed by others:
albeit I must, however regrettingly, decline honouring this draft on my
generosity, and instead dispose of it thus —and thus ;—and so a long good-
night to Marmion!’

Sigismund Temple reseated himself as soon as the last shred of paper
was consumed, and remained for se veral minutes in silent cogitation. ‘ Well
remembered!’ he exclaimed, again rising and ringing the bell; ‘that rascal
Robson must be spoken with. Send Robson, my late brother's servant, to
me immediately,’ he said to the footman who answered the summons. ‘ For
the present,’ he muttered, when the door had closed, ‘if, as 1 think’ I know
the man, a slight hint will suffice; licreafter I can, if necessary, proportion
the reward to the service.’ A tap came to the door, and on receiving per-
mission, Robson entered.

‘You will continue to observe the strictest secrecy with respect to the
unfortunate marriage you witnessed,’ observed Mr Sigismund Temple,
addressing the discreet, taciturn groom. ‘JI intend taking you into my
own service; but your remaining in it will of course depend upon your
owm behaviour and discretion. I shall make all proper arrangements, you
may be.sure; bat the less so absurd an alliance is talked about the better
for ou. honour and your interest.’ Robson acquiesced by a respectful bow ;
and no more was said upon the subject.

‘It is your opinion, then,’ remarked Sigismund Temple to Dr Bailey a
few days after his brother s funeral, ‘ that Sir Edward has fairly outlived
the tendency to pulmonary disease which 80 ADELY displayed itself
some time since ?’

me Nay, my young friend, I do not go so far as that: besides, the chief
dieer is fyom an affection of the heart, whieh both he and his sistex Marion
suffer under, and which may carry either of them off at a moment's warning,

&

GS

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

I have merely said that if Sir‘Edward adopts a strict regimen, and, above
all, is careful to avoid any sudden and painful shock or agitation, he may
live many happy years.’

‘This is not precisely the report I understood you made to Lord
Fanshawe. But that, 1 daresay,’ he added bitterly, ‘is of slight con-
sequence, The lady no doubt marries the brilliant fortune, not its ailing
possessor.’

‘You greatly misapprehend Miss Fanshawe’s character,’ replied the
physician. ‘There are few persons, I believe, less mercenary in any
objectionable sensc of the term. Quite true that she would not unite
herself —that it would never glance across her mind to ynite herself with a

‘man who was not rich and occupying a distinguished position. Situated
as she is with regard to fortune—for the estates, you know, are entailed on

the heirs-male, and Lord Fanshawe lives quite up to his income—and with
her habits, tastes, and requirements, to do so would be to commit an act of
mere suicidal folly. She would as soon think of marrying one of her
father’s footmen. But Iam at the same time equally sure that no estab-
lishment, however splendid, would for a moment tempt her to a union with
either decrepitude, vice, or folly.’

“You speak warmly, Dr Bailey.’

‘Because I fecl warmly, Mr Temple. There is no one for whom I have
a higher respect than for Miss Fanshawe. She is a thoroughly well-
principled, admirable young woman. Conscious of course she must be of
the divine gift of beauty the Creator has bestowed on her; but there is not
a particle of silly vanity, or of a desire to test its power by the infliction
of pain, in her composition. You, Mr Temple,’ added the physician in a
more indifferent tone, ‘and Caroline Fanshawe are very similarly circum-
stanced, and from the same causes. ‘The wealth which might, and perhaps
should have been divided with something like equality between your
families, has been diverted and contined to maintaining the representative
of each house in dignified splendour; and in accommodating yourselves to
your positions, you are both justified in availing yourselves of every means
in your power, not involving meanness or dishonour, to improve your
fortunes.”

‘An evil system,’ said Sigismund Temple ; ‘the prolific parent of every
species of hypocrisy and fraud.’

‘Well, Ido not know. There is pour et contre. One does not clearly.
sce how else a powerful class of landlord nobles could be permanently
maintained; and that has long been held in this country to be a matter of
prime necessity. Misery enough it involves, I grant you, espeoially to
highly-born females, few indecd of whom are so personally gifted as Lord
Fanshawe’s daughter. She will always be able to command an eligible
establishment, even should Sir Edward’s health, which is quite possible,
shew symptoms of relapse before the expiration of the new delay which
your brother's death has thrown in the way of the contemplated marriage.
But younger brothers, such-as you, who- have peer -or parliamentary
influence to back them, will always be pretty safe in this rich and indus-
‘trigus country. You, for instance, are quite sure of getting your head into
the national manger to the tune of, two or three thousand a year, irrespec-
tive of any or whatever talents you may be found to possess. Your

A SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

relatives are bound in honour and conscience to see you provided for to
that extent, if not more.’

‘It may be as you say. You think, then, that a relapse would be fatal
to Sir Edward ?’

‘I have not the slightest doubt that in that case 1 should have the
honour of saluting Sir Sigismund Temple, Baronet,’ rejoined the physician,
with a meaning, half-ironical expression of eye and voice.

The ringing of the dinner-bell interrupted the colloquy. Dr Bailey took
his leave, and Sigismund Temple, after a few minutes’ silent cogitation,
descended to the dining-room. The next day he set off for Somerset-
shire.

Mrs Temple, as we must now call her, was but partially recovered from
the sharp illness by which she had been attacked, when Sigismund Temple
arrived at Holly Lodge with the intelligence of her husband's premature.
and shocking death. His real name he still, of course, carefully- concealed.
The sudden announcement caused a renewal of her disorder: and several
weeks passed before Dr Bainbridge pronounced her convalescent. Her
little boy, too, pined, and seemed falling into a bad way; and Sigismund
Temple half-hoped that the widow aud child would, after no great delay,
follow the husband and father. He rejoiced ‘to find that neither Mrs
‘Temple, nor her companion Mary Crawford, had the slightest suspicion of
the true rank or position of his deceased brother; and he smiled to think
that, other obstacles in his path to high fortune removed, the claims of
Mrs Arthur Temple and her sou need not disturb him much, as he would
manage. He remained several days at the Lodge-—atfected the greatest
sympathy for the suffering widcw-—was very liberal of present pecuniary
aid and future promises—and very gracious and condescending towards Mary
Crawford, to whom, at parting, he made a munificent present. Mary being a
sharp-witted person, and just then naturally mistrusttul of the honour dnd
good faith of any one bearing the name of Smythe, it is no wonder that a
vague distrust of the motives which could prompt such a gift glanced
dimly across her mind. She took care, however, that no outward indica-
tion of this feeling should escape her; and Mr Temple, after receiving her
promise to write to him should anything of importance occur, directing her
letter to Mr James Smythe, Post-Office, St Martin’s-le-Grand, to lie till
called for, he departed for London, well satisfied with the result of his
visit to Somersetshire.

Obscuring clouds soon gathered over his brilliant hopes. The health of
Sir Edward Temple continued obstinately to improve; and at the end of
four months from the death of Arthur Temple, a day was again fixed for
the celubration of his nuptials with Miss Fanshawe. A few days pre-
viously to the one named for that purpose, there was a somewhat numerous
dinner-party in Grosvenor Square, at which Sir Edward presided in appa-

rently florid health and in jubilant spirits. Sigismund Temple, in whose

bosom a hell of envy, hatred, and despair was raging, left the apartment,
soon after the company had assembled in the drawing-room, under the plea
of headache. 2

tI wonder,’ remitrked the baronet, ‘how it happens that Marion is not
arrived. She should have been here two hours ago, according to her letter
received yesterday.’ pa

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

‘This is about her usual time for leaving Devonshire, is it not?’ Miss
Fanshawe remarked.

‘Yes; and her non-arrival is the more surprising, aş her letter states
that her health seems quite re-established.’

‘Something may have occurred to delay her departure,’ said Dr Bailey.
‘Ry the way, Sir Edward,’ the physician added sotto voce, and drawing the
baronet quietly apart, ‘ you are very much and dangerously excited. You
drank, I observed, two or three glasses of wine at dinner more than you
have accustomed yourself to take ; and what with that, the expectation of
your sister's arrival, and Miss Fanshawe’s presence, your pulse is beating,
I know, at a fever pace. Pray endeavour to calm yourself.’

Sir Edward promised that he would do so; and returning to the ladies,
took a chair beside his beautiful betrothed, and resumed a topic upon
which they had been previously conversing.

Sigismund Temple paced up and down the conservatory at the back of
the house with wild disordered steps, and it was long before he succeeded
in mastering the outward signs of the tempest which raged within him.
When he had done so, he determined on returning to the drawing-room.
His absence might, he ai be remarked upon; for he had a strong
suspicion that Dr Buildy, $f ot Caroline Fanshawe herself, had penetr ated
his secret. He had readied foot of the stairs, when a double, and by
no means fashionable knock#vas heard at the outer door. On its being
opened, an elderly person, having the appearance of a country clergyman,
entered, and offering a card, desired to speak with Sir Edward Temple or
his brother. The servant presented the card to Sigismund Temple, who,
glancing at it by the dim light of the hall lamp, read the name of the
Rev. Mr Benton, whom he had not, in the partial obscurity, for the
moment recognised.

‘You are the bearer of ill news, I fear, respecting my sister Marion?’
he said hastily.

‘Alas! yes, sir. That amiable voung lady, I grieve to say, suddenly
expired yesterday afternoon.’ i

‘Good God! is it possible ?’

Sigismund Temple was greatly shocked. He had long since ceased to
feel any affection for his half-brothers; but Marion was a meek, gentle
creature, and almost as ill-used by fortune as himself. He led the way to
the library, invited the Rev. Mr Benton by a gesture to be seated, and
whilst that worthy divine ran over the commonplaces usually uttered at
such times, remained standing with his back to the speaker, gazing out
upon the dark, starless night. lt was some time after the pious clergy-
man had concluded his stock of homilies, that Sigismund Temple turned
‘suddenly. round and faced him; and then his countcnance wore 80 strange,
soid an expression, that the reverend, gentleman was quite startled
+#‘h, sir, you loved your sister fervently! But death, as I have before
X remarked, has his sad preferences, and does not always choose ' =

i ‘Yes—yes! !’ interrupted the good man’s impatient ayditor in a shaking,
husky voice— yes, yes; of course; no doubt; but therë are others besides
me to whom I suppose you wish to break this intelligence?’

: pe to Sir Edward Temple especially. A personally-delivered

22 ae

*

SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

message was, I thought, desirable, in order that the melancholy announce-
ment might be more tenderly—less abruptly made than by letter.’

‘Precisely: this way, then, if you please. Yonder,’ continued Sigis-
mund Temple, standing at the foot of the stairs, and speaking in the same
low, quivering tone—‘ yonder is the door of the drawing-room. Go in and
deliver your message: Sir Edward is there.’

The clergyman bowed, and ascended the stairs. The younger brother
remained standing in the partially-lighted hall, every faculty strained in
eager expectation of what might. follow.

Sir Edward Temple was still conversing in a low tone with Miss Fau-
shawe, when the door opened, and admitted the short, plump figure of the
Devonshire rector. The sudden blaze of light seemed for an instant tu
dazzle and bewilder the new-comer; but quickly recognising the baronet,
he stepped briskly forward, and ceremoniously accosted him. The recog-
nition was mutual. Sir Edward started to his feet with an exclamation of
surprise and alarm, and Miss Fanshawe remarked that a deathly pallor
instantly overspread his previously flushed and animated countenance.

‘Do not unnecessarily alarm yourself, Sir Edward,’ began the flurried
clergyman; and then plunging at once into his, y eparatory exordium, he
said: ‘Death, my dear sir, has his sad likingsai an

‘Death |—death !’ echoed the baronet. withacared look, and his chest
heaving convulsively— death ! who speaks Kërce of death ??.

; Speak to Dr Bailey, whispered Caroline Fanshawe to a young lady by
ter side. The physician was talking vehement politics with Lord Fan-
shawe at the further end of the apartment, and had not observed the
clergyman s entrance. ‘For Heaven's sake, Sir Edward,’ she added, taking |
his hand, ‘ strive to be calm!’

‘ Death !—dcath !’ repeated the baronet, his wild, glaring eyes still fixed
on the countenance 'bf the intruder. ‘What has he to Bay “of death ?’

t Death, I was saying,’ resumed the clergyman, ‘ has his strange caprices,
and does not always wait till our blood is cold, and our hair gray, before
he strikes. Your amiable sister Marion’

A spasmodic scream burst from Sir Edward Temple, and his right hand
at the same moment grasped his left side with convulsive force.

‘Your sister Marion, 1 deeply gricve to say, expired suddenly yesterday
afternoon.’

The sudden shriek, terminated by a convulsive sob, was feebly repeated ;
the stricken man half turned towards his beloved Caroline; his nerveless
hands strove to grasp hers, but missed their hold; a slight tremor shook
his frame, and he fell back in the arms,of Dr Bailey—stone-dead!

‘You need not remain,’ said Sigismund ‘Temple, who had hurried into
the apartment, addressing the terrified and bewildered clergyman, ‘I will
see you in the morning.’ The reverend gentleman gladly complied with
the intimation; and early the next day set off on his return to Devonshire,
after a brief business interview with Sigismund Temple, much discomposed
by the unhappy result of his well-intended mission,

About a month subsequent to the baronet’s decease, Sir Sigismund
Temple's dressing-room bell rang for the third or fourth time with great
violence. He had just returned from Bath, and appeared to be in a state
of great and pleasurable excitement. ‘Is Robson returned yet ?’ he began,

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE, :

as the door opened. ‘Oh, there you are at last! And pray, sir,’ continued
the young baronet, drawing himself haughtily up to his full height, and
beating down with his confident, contemptuous stare, the at first insolent
look of the groom, ‘ how dare you absent yourself from my service without
leave ?’

‘t Without leave! You forget, Sir Sigismund Temple ’
man, with returning contidence.

‘I forget nothing,’sinterrupted the baronet, and am blind to nothing.
t Ilark’`ye, rascal! you believed me to be in your power, and to a certain
extent [ was, and you might perhaps have made your own terms. Your
day is, however, past; and without the slightest apprchension of anything
gou could do or say, I might this instant order you to be turned into the
without a character, to beg, steal, or starve, as your fancy dictated.
ao here,’ added Sir Sigismund, taking a newspaper from his pocket, and
Pointing to a particular paragraph. ‘Do you sce that ?’

The man’s countenance fell, and he stammered out some apologetic sen-
tences. ‘Leave the room,’ was the curt answer. ‘Yet stay: you may
yet deserve my favour. I am still unwilling, for certain reasons of my own,
that my deceased brother's degrading though abortive alliance should be
published to the world. ;.You may, therefore, retain your situation, upon
the precedent conditions:ef silence and diserction, although anything you
could say would, as you well’know. be, as matters have fortunately turned
out, of no importance. Now go, and send Edwards to me.’

rejoined the

Aw

On the third day after this svene occurred, John Whiston had set
out early in the morning on horseback, to attend a sale of farming-stock at
some considerable distance from his home. The weather was warm, the
ride fatiguing, and on his return he made a halt at Plymouth to refresh
himself with a glass or two of brandy and water, and‘talk over the news ;
for Master Whiston was a warm politician, and regularly took in ‘ Lell’s
Messenger,’ which he generally contrived to get through during the week
from title to imprint. Corn-law-repeal politics were just then in the
ascendant; and the interesting subject induced Mr Whiston to prolong
his stay considerably beyond his usual hour. Hoe had exhibited no sign of:
departure, when the stout landlady of the Nag’s Head informed him that
William Carter demanded speech of him. Carter, by the way, was not the
name of the man, but of his vocation—a custom in those parts. Honest
John hastened out to inquire the motive of so unusual a summons; for
Susan, satisfied with domestic supremacy, had always scrupulously
abstained from interfering with or disturbing her husband’s hours of social
enjoyment. ;

‘ Be anything the matter, William ?’ he aan inquired.

‘I doant rightly know, was William’s reply ; ‘ but missus have been in
a terrible flustration from soon after you went this morning.’

‘Baby beant come—but no, that wont be this month or so. The missus:
is well?’ Hp

‘Not particular so in temper. We've all, men and maids, had a terrible .
hurrying time of it since the postman called ; 80 we've set it down, ‘iit
cially as butter is well up in the market jest now—to some crossish news-
brought in a letter.’

SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

Master Whiston was soon mounted, and gallopping sharply homewards,
followed by William Carter. On his arrival at Vale Farm, a few words
from his wife, who appeared much excited—greatly to the alarm of her
mother, who had not ceased to insist during the day upon the primary‘daty
of looking to one’s own health and welfare before other people’s—exphained
everything. The letter was from Mary Crawford. Lucy was still very ill,
she feared dying, and circumstances, which she would hereafter explain,
had determined them to return to Vale Farm at onec, and Mary Crawford
hoped that Susan's hushand would come to them immediately.

‘You must set off at once, John,’ said Mrs Whiston.

‘ Surely—surely ; but where will ye put them, now mother is with us?’
Susan’s father, a small farmer of the neighbourhood, had died not long
before, and the widow had of course taken up her abcde at Vale Farm.

‘Qh, Susan has settled all that!’ said Mrs Durnford angrily. ‘All the
first floor, bless you—and the large front bedroom—and the four-post bed-
stead, with the best chintz hangings—and fires blazing away enough to roast
au ox, as if there could be any damp in this weather. I suppose Susan
herself will have to put up with a bavk-room, or perhaps a garret, for aught
I kuow.’

‘God bless thee, Susy!’ said the honest yeoman. as he kissed his wife.
‘Thee be always right, and kind, and good, and gensible. And God will bless
her, mother, whether she lies down to rest in a garret or a palace.’ Susan
had prepared everything for her husband's departure; and he was soon
gallopping back to Plymouth, from whence he started per mail.

Exactly a week elapsed before Master Whiston and party returned, so
slowly did Mrs Temple's weak state compcl them to travel. Once, how-
ever, restored to her old and true frieuds, and the familiar haunts and
genial air amidst which she had passed her youth, a speedy change for the.
better took place: little Arthur, too, improved marvellously in health and
appearance, and Mrs ‘emple’s spirits gradually regained their old tone.
Brighter and brighter gleamed the lately sorrowful and downcast eyes; more
and more vivid grew the flush of health and hope upon the lately pallid-
cheeks; and autumm had hardly passed away before the thin and wasted
form had recovered its flowing, graceful outline, and Lucy was herself
again ! ;

‘You never rightly told me, though you have often been going to do so,
Mary,’ said Mrs Whiston, late one evening in the ensuing winter, as she
and her cousin were sitting up waiting for John Whiston, who had gone
to an agricultural dinner, ‘about what that fellow, that James Smythe,
wanted you to do for all the money he gave you. Suppose you teli me
now: Lucy and mother are both asleep, so that nobody but I shall hear
you?’

‘Tam almost afraid to talk of it,’ said Mary Crawford, turning quite
pale; ‘and, perhaps, I may have wronged him—-have misunderstood his
dark hints—and yet '

t Why he did not surely wish you to-—— Mrs Whiston’s tongue re-
fused to utter the terrible words her imagination suggested.

*T will only say this,’ said Mary Crawford in a more composed tone than
before, ‘that I was so territied by his hints, and half sayings, and strange
looks, and constant gifts of money, that I discharged the servants; and the

A

id

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

next time he came to Bath on one of his flying visits—latterly he always
gent fur me to meet him there—I told him—I had written a day or two
before to say the child was very ill—that Arthur was dead l’

‘Gracious Heaven !’

‘You should have seen the look, Susan, which flashed out of his large dark
eyes. It was enough to blind one; and yet I thought there was remorse
and regret as well as triumph in it. Over and over again he made me
repeat the story ; how? where, and at what hour the child died. Ie fully
believed it, and had it put in the Bath paper. God forgive me, if I wrong
him, but it is my firm belief that he believes to this day 1 made away with
the child, in return for his bribes! He made me a larger present than
ever,’ continued Mary Crawford, ‘which I freely accepted, believing, as I
did and do, that the money rightfully belonged to Lucy. He thinks she is
gone to live with a distant relative in Sussex; but he will not cast about
to do ker any harm, now that he believes her sou is gone. ‘The furniture
of Holly Lodge was to be sold; and he told me the proceeds shonld be paid
over to me, for Mrs Arthur Smythe’s use, whenever I chose to apply for it,
directing to him as usual. He also, 1 must say this for him, said he was
anxious to provide handsomely for his brother’s widow, and hoped that no
seruplc would be felt in applying to him for any sums, no matter how
large, in reason of course he meant, which she may require.’

'* Why, what cun be the meaning of it all, Mary ?’ said Mrs Whiston, who
had listened with pale affright.

‘That is a question I have thought a good deal of lately,’ replied Mary
Crawford. ‘1 would not, 1 am sure, willingly misjudge the man; but I do
think little Arthur is entitled to some large property in right of his father,
which that man is determined to keep him out of by any means, how-
ever desperate and wicked ; and I think some inquiry ought to be made
without further delay.’

‘Inquiry!’ exclaimed Mrs Whiston, ‘and so epdanger the poor child’s
life, and perhaps Lucy's, without probably doing any good whatever.’

‘I will tell you, Susan, how I have Leen thinking we may set about it
with perfect security. You remember what Lucy told us her father said to
her about Lord Vanshawe's daughter, who, I see by the paper, is to be
shortly married to Sir Sigismund Temple, a great baronet ?’

‘To be sure I do: what then ?’

‘Well, why not forward that parcel of Ictters to her? She will perhaps
get her father, the lord, as Lucy is her first-cousm—just as nearly related
to her as you are to me—to employ a clever London lawyer in the business.
If he could only ferret out that Robson, something might be discovered.’

The more this purpose was debated, the more likely and feasible it
seemed; and by the time John Whiston reached home, it was agreed that
Lucy should be induced to forward the parcel as directed, with an explana-
tory letter from herself. Mrs Temple readily agreed, and the important
missive was despatched.

The reply was prompt and graciqus. A letter arrived by the earliest

*sible post from Lord Fanshawe, enclosing another from his daughter,
hutwessing the liveliest sympathy for their relative, and a good deal blathing
cially anot having made herself known to them before. Both Lord Fan-
mone 1 his daughter had been, it was very apparent, greatly moved b by

SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

Lady Fanshawe and Mrs Gaston’s letters, Caroline especially; and she
vehemently insisted that Lucy, Mrs Smythe, should immediately take up
her abode in Cavendish Square. Lord Fanshawe’s solicitor was to have
immediate orders to prosecute a vigorous inquiry respecting the family and
property of her late husband; and it was announced, in conclusion, that his
Jordship’s butler would arrive at Vale Farm on the day following that of
the delivery of the letter, in order to escort Lucy and her son to London.

This was much more than the Whistons ur Lucy herself either expected
or desired. They were as unwilling to part with her as she was to leave
them again. till, refusal was out of the question, if only for Arthur's
sake; and Lucy with her son, and indispensable Mary Crawford, departed
amidst a shower of tears and blessings, on the day after the morrow, under
the charge of Lord I’anshawe’s butler.

Lucy and her little one received the warmest welcome from her brilliant
cousin; Lord Fanshawe also was kiud and patronising. Both father and
daughter were evidently alike surprised and pleased by the remarkable
beauty of their newly-found relative. Caroline Fanshawe saw in a moment
that Lucy’s natural elegance and grace required but little conventional
polish to render her not only fit to inix with, but to shine, a bright par-
ticular star, in the world of fashion. Masters were immediately engaged to
supply the deficiencies of her neglected educaiion, and Miss Fanshawe pre-
dicted a brilliant future for her, irrespective of any fortune to which she or
her gon might be entitled from those odious Smythes. That, however, was
a matier not to be neglected; and Mr Rushton, Lord Fanshawe’s solicitor,
received immediate instructions npon the subject.

The position of Sir Sigismund T2mple had, in the meantime, become a
dazzling one. Ie had not only succeeded to one of the richest and most
ancient baronetcies in England, but infinitely higher fortune, as he thoughs—
the beautiful, magnificent Caroline Fanshawe would, there was little doubt,
be his wife before mauy days were past! His passion for that lady
amounted almost to idolatry ; aud without her he felt that station, wealth,
honours, would be for him mere dross and rags, foully as he had ventured
for them. His anxious assiduities had Jong since been marked and unmis-
takable; but the requircments of decorum, and the usages of society, neces-
sitated that many mouths should elapse after Sir Edward Temple's death
before he couid »ppear as an ostensible suitor for the hand of the lady once
destined to be that brother's wife. At length, just about three weeks pre-
vious to Lucy’s arrival in Cavendish Square, Sir Sigismund had been urged
to a yet somewhat precipitate declaration by the pointed and well-received
attentions of a young and wealthy viscount. On the same. day, and nearly
at the same hour, a similar proposal reached Caroline Fanshawe frorn the
viscount; and there was some doubt and hesitation as to which should be
accepted. She gave interviews to both suitors, cold, somewhat ‘urmal
ones, in the presence of her father; and with the proud candour which dis-
tinguished her, promised each of them that she would seriously weigh and
cousider all they had urged, and that Lord Fanshawe would communicate
her decision in a month from that time. From a hint afforded Sir Sigis-
mund by his lordship, in a subsequent private’conversation, that gentleman
felt little doubt as to whem the choice would fall upon. To cheat ae

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

footed time, as well as to somewhat calm the tumult of emotion by which
he was shaken, the young baronet passed the agitating interval ih hurrying
from place to place, accompanied only by his servant Robson: He crossed
over to France; returned ; was off to the Highlands; back again, and away
to Wales—as if he thought rapidity of motion and change of scene would
hastén on the creeping hours.

Was this wild fleeing to and fro, it may be asked, caused solely by the
feverish restlessness, the morbid impatience, of a consuming passion? We
may be sure it was not: that the beckoning shapes, the calling shadows,
which he vainly endeavoured to outstrip and banish from his sight by
frequent and rapid change of scene, were not. forms of light and loveliness,
not the brilliant exhalations of a Jover’s fervid fancy. The wild force, the
burning intensity of his passion for Miss Fanshawe, but geve articulate
significance to the suggestions of an excited couscience—to the else con-
fused spectre-whisperings which menaced the bright Future with thie
dark Past. If it were true that the Avenger of Blood walked the earth to
visit deeds unseen of men with retribution, would He permit him to clutch
the prize remorselessly played for, and for which he, Sigismund Temple,
would again play, on the same evil and desperate ‘chance, a thousand times
over? Tlow vulnerable he was !—how dark, fathoyless, and terrible the
gulph which stretched beneath the lofty and dazzling pinnacle upon which
he trembled—-ever shuddering with undefined apprehension lest the unseen
hand, which his morbid imagination pictured as extended over himewith
menacing gestures, should suddenly hurl him into the black void! The
night vision only more distinctly shadowed forth the fearful day-phantasy !
Ever when about to clasp that form of mmmatched beauty, it changed to
the stern likeness of one of his dead brothers—of Sir Edward oftenest, with
his pale solemnity of face and outstretched finger, ever pointing to the
splendid mausoleum of the Temples, where the dreamer always perceived
that another richly-decorated cotin had heen placed since he last stood
there, but the inscription upon which he could not read. His union, then,
he mentally argued, with Miss Fanshawe could alone dissipate these fancies,
by proving them to be the mere idle coinage of an excited brain—phan-
tasms which, till that great hope were consummated, might have power
over him, but not one moment longer.

The seemingly interminable period of suspense and fear was at Icugth all
but passed, and the day before it expired, Robson arrived at the mansion
in Cavendish Square, with a letter from Sir Sigismund, whom he had left at
Bath. The reply was an invitation to the baronet from Lord Fanshawe to
dine with him the next evening en famille, when he would be received as
his lordship’s future son-in-law. Robson was to remain in London, but the
lotter he had strict orders to forward by a special messenger to Bath, the
instant it reached his hands.

Mr Rushton, the solicitor, was in the library when Robson called, where
he had been for a considerable time engaged in listening to Mary Cr awford’s
account of Lucy’s marriage, desertion, the death of her husband, and sub-
sequent strange and suspicious conduct of the deceased's brother, Mr James
pimyine: He was sitting alone, silently pondering the matter, when Lord

‘anshawe entered, and after a few minutes’ conversation relative to the
‘Smythe’ affair, said : : ‘You will be wanted in a day or two, Rushton, to

28

SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

receive instructions relative to a marriage-settlement, of which you must
prepare a draft for counsel's approval. There will be no great difficulty,
as Sir Sigismund Temple gives me carte blanche to insert what sums and
conditions I please.’

‘Sir Sigismund @/emple! Then the lying jade Rumour has spoken truth
for once.’

‘Yes: Robson has just now received an acceptance of the baronet’s pro-
posals. ir Sigismund is at Bath.’

‘ Robson !—Robson !’ ejaculated the solicitor, with a sudden flush of his
pale face. ‘What is he?’

‘Sir Sigismund Temple's favourite groom. Why do you ask ?’

‘Oh nothing, nothing,’ replied Mr Rushton, as carelessly as he could. ‘I
thought 1 knew the name, that’s all. When do you expect Sir Sigismund
will arrive in town ?’

‘Ie will dine here to-morrow evening at seven, and I expect will come
up two or three hours before by the express train.’

Shortly afterwards Lord Fanshawe went away, and the solicitor, imme-
diately he was alone, took down a Baronctage from one of the shelves, and
wagerly turned over the leaves. ‘Very odd coincidences,’ he muttered,
after a few minutes’ perusal of one of iis pages; ‘at all events, Mr Arthur
‘Temple died at the same time, and by the same accident as this reputed
Arthur Smythe. The woman’s description, too, of the brother, remark&bly
corresponds to—— Then the groom Robson—-- This must be looked
to at once.’

Amongst the persons awaiting on the following day the arrival of the
express train at the Paddington station were Mary Crawford, closely muffled
up and veiled, and Mr Rushton. They kept back out of view as much as
possible; and the solicitor, upon the signal being made that the train was
at hand, whispered to his companion: ‘ Now mind and look sharp at tke
passengers, and tell me if you see Mr James Smythe.’

‘That is he!’ exclaimed Mary Crawford, with repressed anger, and
pointing to a fashionably-attired gentleman hastily alighting from one of
the carriages. ‘That is Mr James Smythe!’

‘I thought so,’ said the solicitor, ‘from Robson’s ‘silence and confusion :
he will speak out now probably. Thac gentleman,’ he added, ‘whom you
call Smythe, calls himself Sir Sigismund Temple.’

A carriage “vas in waiting for the baronet, in which he immediately drove
off homewards; and the cab which conveyed Mr Rushton and Mary Craw-
ford was a few minutes afterwards tearing along in the direction of Caven-
dish Square.

The triumphant lover trod on air as he ascended to iis dressing-room to
prepare for his visit to Lord Fanshawe. There was an admirable portrait
of the beautiful Caroline in the apartment, which had been painted for his
brother Sir Edward. Sir Sigismund’s dark eyes lightened with rapture as
he gazed upon it. ‘Mine--mine—mine—bcyond the power of chance!’
he exclaimed. ‘Qh, what are kings or emperors io me!’ and his stormy
joy laughed out in a wild burst of mirth. It was, however, necessury to
calm himself somewhat, and by a strong effort he did so. ‘Send Robson
to me,’ he said to a valet who answered his bell: ‘I wish to speak with
him.’

~ 29

5 CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

. ‘He was sent for by some one about two o'clock to-day, and has nut
since returned,’ replied the man.

‘That is strange behaviour. But come; it is time that I should dress.’

Iis toilet was accomplished; but it was yet much too early to proceed
to Cavendish Square. He intended arriving there halfan hour before the
time appointed for dinner, in the assured expectation of then finding Miss
Fanshawe alone in the drawing-room. It was still only half-past five,
albeit evening had long closed in. Restless, perturbed, excited as he was,
immobility, quiet, inaction was impossible. A fancy seized him; he would
while away the lingering interval by a gallop. Saddle-horses for himself and
groom were immediately ordered round: he mounted, and in his flurry and
excitation of spirit dashed with fierce speed towards Oxford Street, and
then on in the direction of Bayswater. He rode on for between four and
five miles, turned, came back at the same pace, and arrived, ñushed with
the exercise, in Cavendish Square.

There were lights in the drawing-room, and he discerned a female figure
there, and only one. Ile eagerly alighted, threw the bridle to bis groom,
but without pausing to give him any ‘order to stay or return home, aud the
next minute was bounding up the stairs, his pulse throbbing, and his eyes
on fire with excess of emotion.

The ‘lady he had indistinctly discerned through the muslin curtains of
theedrawing-room was bending over some object hidden by her figure,
which he could alone see, her head. from the s{ooping attitude, being in-
visible to him. The thick carpets prevented his steps from being heard ;
and he, nothing doubting that Caroline Fanshawe was before him, rushed
forwards, and threw himself at her feet, exclaiming, in the broken, velie-
ment tones of passion, ‘ Caroline ~-heloved— adored !’—-—

A cry of alarm eseaped the lady as she turned, and disclosed to the
thunder-stricken man at her feet the well-remembered features of Mrs
Temple—of his dead brother's wife! And there, too, he recognised in-
stinctively, was her son, whom he had believed dead—hers and his brother's
son, over whom she had been Jeauing.

A fierce, irrepressible cry burst from him as he sprang up, white with
terror, and staggered back from before the appalling vision by which he
was so suddenly confrouted. ‘Merciful God! Speak—when—for what
purpose—how—why is this?’ he gasped with wild incoherence.

A door at the further side of the spacious apartment was thrown sharply
open, and Lord Fanshawe and his daughter hurried in, followed by Dr
Bailey, Mr Rushton, and Mary Crawford. Robson, too, was therc, but he
remained in the doorway, as if uncertain whether or not he was expected
to follow. The completeness of his ruin flashed at the sight instantly upon
Sigismund Temple: he comprehended everything ; and although a tempest
was sounding in his cars, he could discern through all the still small voice

proclaiming “that judgment, fatal and irreversible, had fallen upon him.
His fiery look became almost immediately rivetted upon the countenance
of Miss Fanshawe. He there read painful emotion—regret—compassion,
but also disdain—resolve. ‘Miss Fanshawe,’ he cried with a choking voice,
a#he sprang forward and caught her dress, for she had turned to leave the
apartment-—! Carolinc—hear me but one word—but one l’

The lady turned half round, looked fixedly at him for a moment with a

30

SIGISMUND TEMPLE.

mingled expression of sorrow and contempt, then gently but firmly discn-
gaged her robe, and with a sad but peremptory gesture of farewell, passcd
on.

‘My note, which must have been delivered in Grosvenor Square nearly
an hour ago, should have prevented this unpleasant scene. I little expected
to sce you here, Mr Temple, after its perusal,’ said Lord Fanshawe, in his
coldest, haughtiest tones.

‘It is also right,’ said Dr Bailey, ‘I should inform Mr Temple, that, in
addition to what his lordship has discovered relative to this lady and her
child, I have thought it my duty, under present circumstances, to acquaint
him with a fact which sometime ago came to my knowledge relative to Sir
Edward Temple’s death. My informant was the Rev. Mr Benton. Mr
Temple will not be at a loss to understand my meaning.’

Sigismund Temple replied not to these taunts by word, or look, or
gesture. His eyes remained fixed upon the door through which Caroline
Fanshawe had passed, as if expecting her return. Presently a new and
frightful expression passed over his face; he seized his hat, which had
fallen on the floor, and staggered out of the apartment. Arrived at the
head of the stairs, he turned round, steadied himself by the balustrade,
hurled a burst of passionate defiance and invective at Lord Fanshawe and
the physician, and then sprang with the specd and fury of a maniac: down
the stairs. His hsise was still at the door; he vaulted into the saddle,
struck the high-blooded aniinal repeatedly with a whip he snatched from the
groom, and was carried off at a fearful pace. The tennis horse had gat
the bit between his teeth, and was unmanageable; but this the unfortunate
rider neither knew nor recked of. The universe seemed crashing, whirling
romd him as he dashed madly by the zig-zag lines of light, and along the
roaring streets, followed by the shoutings and execrations of the people
whose lives he was endangering. Just as he neared the entrance of Duke
Street, Grosvenor Square, a loaded van came sharply out of it into Oxford
Street. Tle could not if he would have checked the maddened horse in
time to avoid a collision. He did not probably attempt it, and the animal’s
head came with the furce of a cannou-shot against the hindwheel of the
van. Mr Temple was hurled with tremendous force upon the foot-pave-
ment, and by the time his groom came up, it had been discovered that he
must have lied instantaneously. The horse was also killed.

The play is over—the story told; but it may be necessary, as the eurtain
slowly descends, to subjoin a few particulars relative to the surviving
actors in this perhaps too-easily-recognised domestic drama.

An attempt was made by a Mr Camelford, who, had neither of the
Temples Icft male issue, would have been heir- at-law to the title and
estates, to dispute'the validity of Mrs Temple’s marriage, or, more cor-
rectly speaking, that Arthur Smythe was really Arthur Temple. This,
however, Robson’s evidence, supported by several letters addressed to
Arthur Temple by his brother Sigismund relative to his ill-advised union
with Lucy Gaston, found amongst Sigismund Temples private papers—
though why preserved it seems difficult to say—esteblished beygnd doubt
or question, and the suit was ultimately abandoned.

Sir Arthur Temple is now in his sixth year, and, continues in the enjoy-
3l

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

ment of excellent health, watched over with prideful tenderness by his
mother, the still very beautiful Lucy of our story. Although it is said
frequently tempted, and no wonder, to enter again into the bonds of holy
matrimony, she has hitherto resolutely declined every offer of the sort,
however dazzling. In truth, Mrs Temple does not appear to be greatly ena-
moured of state and splendour, for she never seems so thoroughly delighted
and happy as when she can escape from Grosvenor Square or Temple House,
with her son, and, of course, Mary Crawford, to Vale Farm, and be again
the Lucy of her young days, with her trusty and now rejoicing friends, the
Whistohs, to every one of whose children, and they are already rather
numerous, she is the bountiful and loving godmother.

Lord Fanshawe still survives, and in excellent preservation, much to the
chagrin of the heir-expectant, whose locks are already gray with age and
the hope still deferred of title and estate. His lordship’s daughter, the
brilliant Caroline, married, six months after Sigismund Temple’s death,
the viscount she had refused a few days previous to that event. She is
now the star and cynosure of the British court; and adepts in the histories
and mysteries of the pecrage will, in all probability, find little difficulty
in divining the title of the beautiful viscountess—a piece of information
which we, tor various reasons, decline recording here.

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

OX of the most striking phenomena presented to the mind of the
student of Nature, is the principle of unity which pervades all her
multiplied workings and productions. To refer to the fact that the past
is linked to the present, and the present to the future—that correlations
exist between every department of the organic and inorganic worlds —that
the comnections become clearer the more they are investigated—is to call
attention to what are now reccived as philosophical truisms. The sym-
pathies which filiate through geology to botany, chemistry, magnetism,
zoology, and astronomy, are not less admirable when contemplated in their
relation to animated creation; and in the universal desire and ability for
eommunication in the latter, we perhaps have their most remarkable
display. Naturalists tell us that gnats and several minor members of
the insect race possess the powcr of making their sensations known tot.
their companions equally with the laborious bee or sagacious elephant.
Indced, the endowing with the faculty to communicate appears to be one
of the essential aims of nature. And if so, with what is often termed
the subordinate or instinctive part of creation, how much more so in
eregard to man, who claims supremacy over all! Besides the gift of
speech, man, by reason of his intelligence, finds means to convey his
thoughts to distant places with an energy and comprehensiveness unknown
to the quadrupedal tribes, and thus completes the unity which, starting
from the inorganic molecule, is finally exemplified in him.

In the world’s younger days, and for long afterwards, smoke and
fame were the most obvious and available means for communicating
signals to long distances. From the beacon-fires of the Scriptural ages
to that which flashed from ‘Ida's height,’ and the stirring night when”

t From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay,
The time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day}?

and also to the period of threatened invasion within the memory of many
now living, fire has been made a messenger of news. From the lighthouse
top it warns and guides the mariner not less surely than the stars of heaven
reveal his position on the trackless waters.

Of old, watchmen stood on the hills and cried aloud; trumpcters blew a

blast from hill to hill; or legionaries, with elevated flags or spears, sent
No, 71. i

CHAMBERS$’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

tidings afar. ‘Swift as a post’ was not an inappropriate simile even in
primeval days: Egypt's learned priesthood knew how to avail themselves
of mysterious vocal tubes ; the monarchs of Mexico and Peru maintained
a corps of runners, who bore despatches to all parts of their empire with
singular celerity. Another generation conveyed their wishes in the flashes
of mirrors, the pealing of bells, the thunder of cannon, or flight of pigeons.
Then came the mail-coach, with its fleet officials and fleeter steeds; to be
in turn superseded by that triumph of steam, the locomotiveand express train,
speeding across a county in shorter time than the mail would have traversed
a parish, seeming, in its career ot seventy miles an hour, to have reached
the limit of human possibility. But a new invention came to light, before
which the wildest dreams of romance—the flying horse that carried off
Prince Firouz, or Prince Houssain’s travelling carpet—seem to become
sober realities ; and all former methods for the transmission of intelligence
have been for ever excelled by the Electric Telegraph. With this man has
achieved an entire and absolute unity.
4

The establishment of a telegraph necessarily involves a certain degree
of civilisation—there must be fixed habits and steady policy; and we
cannot better appreciate the advantages of the present system than by
contrasting it with the past. To do this we need not go back to the time
of the Greeks or Romans; our purpose will be effectually answered by
a retrospect to the last two centuries. Oue science or art helps on another:
to distinguish objects afar off there must be the possibility of sceing
at a distance; and thus the study of optics and the invention of
telescopes and reflectors would naturally suggest new applications of
utility.

The Marquis of Worcester alludes to a telegraph in his famous ‘ Cen-
tury of Inventions.’ After him we may place Robert Hooke, one of the
most notable philosophers of his age, who, in 1684, presented a paper to
the Royal Society, ‘Shewing a way how to communicate one’s mind at
great distances.’ He had conceived the project long before; but the then
recent siege of Vienna by the Turks had caused him ‘to take up agai
with his plan for discoursing at a distance, not by sound, but by sight.’
The principle involved the use of telescopes, but it was less simple and
ingenious than that which afterwards came into use.

Guillaume Amontons, a Frenchman, appears to have heen the first to
render a telegraph available for practical purposes about 1690, by ‘a means
which,’ as recorded by Fontenelle, ‘he invented to make known all that
was wished to a very great distance—for example, from Paris to Rome—
in a very short time, three or four hours, and even without the news becom-
ing known in all the intervening space. This proposition, so paradoxical
and chimerical in appearance, was executed over a small extent of country,
once in presence of Monseigneur, and afterwards before Madame. The
secret consisted in placing in several consecutive stations persons who, by
means of telescopes, having perceived certain signals at the preceding
station, transmitted them to the next, and so on in succession, and these
different signals were so many letters of our alphabet, of which the key
was known only at Paris and Rome. The greatest reach of the telescopes
determined the distance of the stations, of which the number was to be the

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS. -

fewest possible; and as the second station made signals to the third as fast
as they were seen at the first, the news was carried from Paris to Rome
in almost as little time as it took to form the signals at Paris.’ For this
public exhibition of his apparatus, Amontons was indebted to the intrigues
of Mademoiselle Chouin, a princely favourite; but the dauphin was teo
indolent to make an effort towards encouraging the invention, and it shared
the fate of many others—neglect.

Another projector, named Marcel, followed with no beiter fortune than
his predecessor. Wearied with attendance on a dilatory government, he
broke his machine and burnt his drawings, and died without revealing his
secret. Next, Linguet, who had been for some years a prisoner in the
Bastille, claimed the merit of the invention, and offered to construct a tele-
graph in exchange for his liberty. History is silent as to his offer being
accepted. In course of time a private attempt was made: Monsieur Dupuis
of Belleville constructed a telegraph, by means of which he communicated’
with his friend Fortin, who lived a few leagues off at Bayeux. Meantime
Mr Edgeworth had published his plans in Ircland; Bergstrasser of Hanau
had investigated every branch of telegraphy: flame, smoke, reflection,
rockets, detonations, torches, bells, trumpets, flags, and mirrors ; and atten-
tion being drawn to the subject in viher quarters, shewed that the time for
realising a speedy-trausinission project was ot hand.

Tt came at last with its man. Claude Chappe, when a youth in a religious
establishment at Angers, had contrived an apparatus, a post, bearing a revolv-
ing beam, and circulgtory arms, with which he conveyed signals to three of
his brothers who were at a school about half a Ieague distant, and read them
off with a telescope. Ikeeping the idea in view for several years, he even-
tually laid his plaus before the legislature in 1792, assuring them that ‘ the
speed of the correspondence would be such, that the legislative body would
be able to send their orders to the fronticrs, and receive an answer back,
during the continuance of a single sitting.’ After much vexatious delay,
the sum of 6000 francs was granted to enable him to make an experiment
near Paris; but his first apparatus was stolen by a party of men in masks,
and no sooner was it reconstructed, than the populace burnt the work to
the ground, stupidly imagining that certain direful machinations were in-
volved in the signals. A third trial was more sucvessful; the authorities:
approved the plan, and Chappe, with the title of Ingénieur Télégraphe, was
appointed to erect a telegraph from Paris to Lille. The French armies
wete on foot, and speedy intelligence of their successes or reverses was most
desirable.

The line, with its apparatus, which admitted the formation of 192
different signals, was completed in two years. Its first announcement
was a victory. On the last day of November 1794, Carnot entered the
Assembly with the news, ‘Condé is given up to the Republic! The
surrender took place this morning at six.’ The Chamber yoted that ‘ the
Army of the North had deserved well of the country,’ and caused their
approval to be sent to. head-quarters; and before the legislators broke up,
they were informed that their orders had been transmitted to Lille, and the
receipt acknowledged. Such an incident in the infancy of the new art was
hailed with enthusiastic acclamations.

This successful result led to the immediate formation of the oe et

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

which radiated from Paris to all the frontiers of the kingdom. The signals
were conveyed with great rapidity; and to avoid confusion, the movable
arms on the right of the central post were kept exclusively for government
messages, those on the left being employed in the service of theline. Thus
accidents or delays could be reported without detriment to the official de-
spatch. From Paris to Calais, 152 miles, there were thirty-three stations,
and a message could be sent from one extremity to the other in three
minutes; to Strasburg, 255 miles, and forty-four stations, in six and a half
‘minutes; to Toulon, 317 miles, and one hundred stations, in twenty minutes.
The longest lines were to Brest and Bayonne ; the former 325 miles, the
latter 425; and altogether there were 519 stations, the annual cost of which
-amounted to £40,000. It has happened, sometimes, when one part of thé
‘country was obscured by fogs, that information has been conveyed to the
‘capital by the longer route; on one occasion news from Lyons travelled to
Paris by way of Bordeaux. ‘The last of the brothers Chappe was in office
until 1830, when the Jyly revolution deprived him of his post and its
emoluments.

The new mode of correspondence was speedily adopted by the other
governments of Europe, and numerous forms of apparatus were proposed
by enterprising inventors, some of them remarkable for the infinite multi-

‘plicity of their signals. The first line of telegraph established in England,
in 1796, extended from London to Dover, speedy transmission of Channel
news being then of prime importance. Portsmouth and the Admiralty -
were afterwards brought into communication by a system of signals not
before adupted —-a vertical post with two movable arms, that could be
placed in forty-eight different positions. The maintenance of this line,
seventy-two miles, involved a charge of more than £3000 yearly. It was
given up in 1847.

With all its advantages, however, the aérial telegraph, as it was called,
was a necessarily imperfect contrivance, bemg altogether useless at night,
and during fogs or gluomy and rainy weather. For three-fourths of the
year the Admiralty telegraph stood idle: 1600 hours in the twelvemonth
were reckoned as its available capability. A foul-weather telegraph was
conccived to be an impossibility, and the system of night-signals by means
of lamps and reflectors was far from perfect, notwithstanding the endea-
vours after improvement. One of the most satisfactory, by the Rev. J.
Bremner of Shetland, gained the gold medal of the Society of Arts in 1216.
Couriers, mail-coaches, and dispatch-boats, were still the grand resource?

We turn now to another part of the general subject under consideration,
not less interesting than important—that of electricity. Its history carries
us back to the age of conjecture and the dawn of philosophy. Six hundred
years before the birth ot Christ, Thales had observed that amber, or elektroh,
as the Greeks called it, exhibited, when rubbed, certain properties of attrac-
tion which it did not otherwise possess. Besides giving us the word in
which our term electricity originates, the early philosophers left behind
them several accounts of electrical phenomena. Aristotle, Theophrastus,
Pliny, Cæsar, and Plutarch, all mention them. Singular flames were
sometimes seen on the tops of the masts of ships in the Mediterranean, or
quivering on the heads of the wondering mariners; and on several occasions
Roman troops, while on a march, had observed similar luminous appearances

4

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

on the points of their lances. And coming down to a later period, we find
Eustathius, in his commentaries on Homer, relating the case of Walimer;
father of Theodoric the Goth, whose body gave out sparks; and of another
individual who, on drawing off his clothes, saw flames or scintillations leap
from his skin with a crackling noise. From Thaics to the twelfth century
is a long period, yet scanty as is the record of facts, it is sufficient to shew
that electrical phenomena had not passed without notice; but, as far as we
know, no attempt was made to reason upon them, or define their nature.
The first approach towards such a result was the treatise ‘De Magnete,'
published by Gilbert, an Englishman, at the end of the sixteenth century.
He classifies all the then known electric substances, and enters into some
discussion on the electricity of the air and the earth. The latter subject,
in particular, engaged the attention of philosophers whose names are yet
famous —Father Kircher, Descartes, Halley, and others. According to some
theorists, iron crept about or grew within the body of the carth, and its
transmission along deeply-buried tubes, provided. by nature, was the cause
of magnetic variation at the surface. Within the next fifty years the
Prussian, Otto Guericke, produced the first electrical machine—a globe of
sulphur’made to rotate by means of a winch, while the friction of a piece of
cloth held against it excited the elec trical influence. Ife discovered one or
two of the principles of the science, particularly that of the electric fluid
passing from one body to another without actual contact, but missed the
deduction of consequences from a fact since recognised as essential.

The eighteenth century came, and opened the most famous page in the
history of electricity. For Guericke’s ball of sulphur, Nauksbee substi-
tuted a globe of glass, while other experimentalists used straight glass tubes
rubbed with the hand. Stephen Gray found ihat all substances might be
classified as clectrics and non-electrics ; and, by means-of packthreads more
than a hundred feet in length, was the first to prove that the electric
impulse could be transmitted to a considerable distance. In company with
his friend Wheeler, he discovercd also the insulating properties of glass,
silk, hair, and resin, besides some other bodies. In France, Dufaye and
Nollet were labouring diligently at the same pursuit. By wetting a cord,
they observed that Gray’s experiment could be greatly extended. They sent
a current through thirteen hundred feet; and following up the reasoning of
their English contemporary, ‘Dufaye suspended his own person by silk
lines, and being electrified, the Abbé Nollet, who assisted him in these
experiments, presented his hand to his body, when immediately a spark of
fire issued from the person of the one philosopher and entered the body of
the other. Although such a result had been predicted as a consequence of
the arrangement, thé astonishment was not thc less great at its occurrence.
Nollet states, that he can never forget the surprise of both Dufaye and him-
self when they witnessed the first explosion from the budy of the former.’

To Dufaye, belongs the merit of discovering the two kinds of electricity,
which he named vitreous and resinous, or, according to the present termi-
nology, positive and negative. ‘To call them two different manifestations of
one and the same grand natural agency, would perhaps be a better inter-
pretation of the phenomena. Germany next added a few facts to the
growing science. A Scottish monk at Erfurt, by adopting glass cylinders,
gave to the electrical machine almost its present form, and marvellous effects

5

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

were produced, In 1746, the three philosophers of Leyden produced the ı
jer which still in name perpetuates the place of its discovery. The power
of the shock, probably owing to its novelty, appears at that time to have
been greatly exaggerated. Muschenbroek, writing an account of the experi-
ments to Réaumur, states that ‘he felt himself struck in his arms, shoulders,
and breast, go that he lost his breath, and was two days before he recovered
from the effects of the blow and the terror ;’ and adds, that ‘he would not
take a second shock for the whole kingdom of France.’

But leaving particulars, the investigations which most claim our atten-
tion are those which relate to the transmission of electricity to long distances.
With lengths of wire held by human hands, Nollet formed a chain more
than 5000 feet Jong, and found that the passage of the shock through the
' whole number of individuals was instantaneous. The same fact was still
more satisfactorily demonstrated in England by Dr Watson, an emixent
Fellow of the Royal Society. We carricd a wire across the Thames at
Westminster Bridge, one end being in contact with a charged jar, the other
held by a person on the opposite shore. A second individual was placed
in communication with the jar, and ona given signal the two dipped into
the river an iron rod which they held in their hands, on which the shock
travelled from one side of the stream to ihe other by means of the wire,
and came back through the water to complete the circuit. This was an
important discovery, inasmuch as it involved the principle on which depended
all subsequent experinents on transmission toa distance. Watson repeated
his experiments on several occasions, the last time near Shooter's Hill, with
two miles of wire; and the now familiar fact that observers, however far
apart, feel the shock at the same instant, then excited a degree of astonish-
ment bordering on incredulity. Franklin’s famous kite-experiment, which
proved the identity of lightning and clectricity, may be regarded as the
climax of electrical discovery in the past century. No svoner had the
general natnre of the new and startling phenomena become known, than
the idea immediately sprang up of employing the mystcrious agency in the
conveyance of signals. Maunoir relates, that in 1773 Odier wrote to a lady
of his acquaintance—‘ I shall amuse you, perhaps, in telling you that I have
in my head certain experiments by which to enter into conversation with
the emperor of Mogol or of China, the Engliaiythe French, or any other
people of Europe, in a way that without inconvéniencing yourself, you may
intercommunicate all that you wish, at a distance of four or five thousand
leagues in less than half an hour! Will that suffice you for glory? There
is nothing more real. Whatever be the course of those experiments, they
must necessarily lead to some grand discovery; but I have not the courage
to undertake them this winter. What gave me the idea was a word which
I heard spoken casually the other day at Sir John Pringle’s table, where I
had the pleasure of dining with Franklin, Priestley, and other great
geniuses.’

A short time previously, according to Maunoir, who adds that Odier was
then devoting much attention to electricity, the latter wrote to the same
lady——‘ {s it not astonishing that the movement of a morsel of straw,
attracted by.a piece of amber, should have suggested to Franklin the
sublime idea of the lightning-conductor? Franklin was the first to discover
the secret of imprisoning the electric fluid in a bottle.’ :

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

Other minds were also occupied with the subject: in 1774 Lesage, a
Frenchman at Geneva, published a plan for an electric telegraph, which he
submitted to Frederick of Prussia, conceiving that monarch best capable
of realising it. He proposed to arrange tweniy-four metal wires in some
insulating substance, each connected with an electrometer, from which a
pith ball was suspended. On exciting the wires by means of an electrifying
machine, the movements af the twenty-four balls represented the letters of
the alphabet, as might have been agreed on. T'he project, though inge-
nious, was never carried into execution, aud would have failed at great
distances, owing to an essential defect to be presently noticed.

Arthur Young, in his ‘Travels in France,’ gives us an account of a some-
what similar contrivance, which affords further evidence of the interest felt
in the subject of electric communications. Under the date September 16,
1787, he writes :— In the evening to Monsieur Lomond, a very ingenious
and inventive mechanic. Jn electricity he has made a remarkable dis-
covery: you write two or three words on a paper; he takes it with him:
into a room, and turns a machine enclosed in a cylindrical case; at the top
of which is an clectrometer, a sinall fine pith ball; a wire connects with a
similar cylinder and electrometer in a distant apartment; and his wife, by
remarking the corresponding motions of the ball, writes down the words
they indicate, from which it appears that he has formed an alphabet of
motions. As the length of the wire makes uo difference in the effect, a
correspondence might be carried on at any distance: within and without a
besieged town, for mstance; or for a purpose much more worthy, and a
thousand times more harmless—between two lovers prohibited or prevented
from any better connection. Whatever the use may be, the invention is
beautiful.’

A method proposed by Reiser in Germany, in 1794, exhibited illuminated
signals. Plates of glass partially covered with tinfoil were connected ,by
wires with a machine, and sparks of light became visible on the uncovered
parts of the glass when the eleciric current was passing. Cavallo, again,
in his treatise on electricity, published in 1795, suggests the explosion of a
Leyden jar as a means of arousing the attention of the distant operator. In
the following year Salva, a Spanish physician, who in detiance of the opposi-
tion of bigoted monks angi. popular i ignorance, had earnestly promoted the
cause of yaccination—comstructed an electric telegraph, and described it in
a memoir which he laid befure the Academy of Sciences of Madrid. The
Infant Don Autonio was so much interested in the invention, that he caused
a telegraph to be erected, and turned it to practical use. Shortly after-
wards a more extensive attempt was made by Betancourt, who stretched
wires from Aranjuez to Madrid, a distance of forty-five miles, and conveyed
his signals in the discharge of jars. One after another, however, the
scheines failed in subordinating the element of electricity to their purposes;
the human mind had to be tasked to yet greater efforts, and the period of
their realisation was not far distant. Of all the projects for establishing a
telegraph with frictional electricity as its active principle, the most completa
was that published by Mr Francis Ronalds in 1823. -

There is something eminently gratifying in the consideration of science
pursuing its even course undisturbed by political convulsions. While
England was losing her right to the American colonies im the wanton A

'y

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

exercise of might, and while the social elements were fermenting on the

continent, to break out in the agonies and horrors of the French Revolution,
philosophers were quietly penetrating the secrets of nature, and searching
for fuller and clearer knowledge. ‘They had their reward.

The telegraphs here brought under notice failed, because they were
worked by statical elcctricity—that is, electricity obtained by friction, or
from Leyden jars. This kind of electricity is remarkable for what is called
its tension, or tendency to fly off from its conductors. It is an agent not to
be depended on or held in control, and proves itself often capricious, from
various Causes, some of them inappreciable: among the known, damp is
one of the most influential. Hence the r nlisation of electric telegraphs on
a large scale was essentially impracticable. Signals, it is truc, might have
been transmitted within a building, but not for miles out of doors, in all
weathers. For the further development of telegraphy, we are indebted to
dynamic electricity, or electricity without tension; that is, without a ten-
dency to abandon the conductors along which it travels. Its phenomena,
when compared with those of statical electricity, are much more striking
and interesting.

In the whole history of accidental discovery, there is no event more
remarkable than that by which that other form of clectricity, known as
galvanism, was brought to light. To quote M. Arago: ‘It may be proved
that this immortal discovery arose in the most immediate and direct manner
from a slight cold with which a Bolognese lady was attacked iun 1790, for
which her physician prescribed the use of frog broth.’

In accordance with the medical advice, a number of frogs were prepared
for stewing, and by some chance a few of them were laid on a table near
an electrical machine, in the laboratory of Galvani, professor of anatomy at
Bologna, and husband of the lady in question. An assistant working in
the apartment had occasion to draw sparks from the machine, and each
time that he did so, Signora Galvani observed that the limbs of the dead
frogs moved as though alive. She called the professor's attention to the
fact; he repeated the experiment, and with the saine result. But without
intending it, he went farther than this, and found that the limbs of frogs
could be excited as well by means of good egnductors as by a machine.
The power was present, and required only an éfficient cause to develop its
action. Galvani, it is said, having prepared the hinder halves of several
frogs for anatomical investigation, ‘passed copper hooks through part of
the dorsal column which remained above the junction of the thighs, for the
convenience of hanging them up till they might be required for the purposes
of experiment. In this manner he happened to suspend several upon the
iron balcony in front of his laboratory, when, to his inexpressible astonish-
ment, the limbs were thrown into strong convulsions.’ On examining
further into the phenomenon, he ascert tained that it could be produced at
pleasure by touching the surface of a nerve and of a muscle at the same
time with a metallic conductor; and arguing from the whole body of facts
that came within his experience, he propounded a theory of animal electri-
' city which for some time dazzled the imaginations and stimulated the
enthusiasm of a host of partisans, according to whom the existence of @
‘nervous fluid ' had been demonstrated by the experiments.

8

. ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS. «|

A new explanation was séon to appear. Volta, professor of natural
philosophy at Pavia, reasoning upon Sulzer's experiment, in which the
: placing of a piece of lead and another of zinc, above and below the tongue,
produced a pevuliar effect on bringing the edges of the two pieces of metal
into contact, and on the fact that a similar taste is perceived on applyiag
the tongue to a charged electrical conductor, csme to the conclusion that
electricity was thé cause of the phenomena witnessed by Galvani, arid
considered by that philosopher as due to some property inherent in the
nerve or muscle. ‘Volta had observed also that the excitement of the
organism was greater when touched with two. different metals than when
only one was used, and from this result deduced the fact that the electricity
resided in the metals, not in the nerves, and that bri inging them together
was 'the tause of the phenomenon. By pursuing the inquiry, further
conclusions were arrived at; and Fabroni, another Italian, in a memoir
which he communicated to the F lorentine Academy, a ascribed the electrical
effects to chemical action.

After continued application, Volta at length discovered the instrument
now known as the Voltaic pile. At first it was a circle of small cups
partially filled with salt water, and containing plates of zinc and silver
connected by wires. It was subsequently modified into its present form—a
pile of alternate disks of zinc and copper kept separate by the interposition
of disks of pasteboard moistened in an acid solution. He announced this
discovery in a letter to Sir Joseph Banks, president of the Royal Society,
in March 1800, and won for himself a reputation in the foremost ranks of
acience. We had found the means of accumulating and rendering con-
tinuous the power w hich had bafiled Galvani.

At Napoleon’s invitation, Volta visited Paris in 1801, and explained and
illustrated his theory of contact of metals and electro- motive action to the
members of the Academy of Sciences. The First Consul was one of the
audience; and ‘ when the report of the committee on the subject was read,
he proposed that the rules of the Academy, which produced some delay in
conferring its honours, should be suspended, and the gold medal imme-
diately awarded to Volta, as a testimony of the gratitude of the philoso-
phers ef France for his discovery. This proposition being carried by
acclamation, ‘the hero of ndred fields, who never did things by halves,
and who was filled with a™Prophetic enthusiasm as to the powers of the
pile, ordered two thonsand crowns to be sent to Volta the same day from
the public treasury, to defray the expenses of his journey.’

. Lhe terms galvanism, or voltaic clectricity, were applied to the iei
devaloped. „principle in honour of the two discoverers. Familiarity with
their effects. has scarcely divested them of their wonder-compelling cha-
racter. The tongue-experiment is a household sport with many persons ;
and numbers besides know that an action is produced by leaning a sir ip of
zing against a strip of copper in a tumbler of muriatic acid. This action
is, however, the most subtle, and as yet the most extraordinary of nature’s
manifold agencies. ‘With two sorts of metal and an acid the current imme-
diately. hegina to flow.. In some of its effects it resembles electricity, yot

there are essential differences. Galvanism must haye a continuous eons `

ductor ; electricity will leap over short distances from one te another,"

The one is steady, the. other uncertain. Tron can be magnetised by gale
' No. 71:

k

. CHAMBERE'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

vanisin, not by electricity. Thus we appear to have two forces, aliké yet:
unlike; both mysterious, and peculiarly inciting to philosophical inves- |
tigation, :

The announcement of Volta’s discovery drew the attention of many
inquiring minds to the subject all over Europe. In chemical researches
more particularly the powers of the pile were made largely available.
Ritter of Munich, in 1805, found that pieces of metal could be magnetised
by the voltaic current; and in 1807 the famous Danish physicist,
Oersted-——whose recent decease is a great loss to science—made cer-
tain observations on the same phenomenon, which he diligently pursued
and, reconsidered, until he arrived at his celebrated discovery in 1819.
It consisted in the capital fact that the needle of a compass, when
placed above or below a voltaic wire stretched from north to south, end
forming a complete circuit, deviated from its normal position, and shewed
a tendency to place itself at right angles with the current. There was,
besides, the remarkable phenomenon, that when the needle was below the
wire, its south pole diverged to the west, if the current were passing from
south to north, and to the east when fluwing in the reverse direction:
with the needle above the wire, directly opposite effects were produced.
This was a discovery scarcely less important than that of the voltaic
current, being, at the same time, the result of patient and Jong-continued
inductive research, and the immediate cause of further application. Oersted
first made it public in 1820, in a Latin memoir, in which he demonstrates
the laws of the phenomenon, and states that by the meeting of two electric
currents, a new development of power takes place, which attracts or repels
the north pole ot the needle, according as it is positive or negative; that
. the direction of this power is not in a right linc, hut a spiral—a view
remarkable for its sagacity, and which subsequent experience has affirmed.

Oersted’s discovery excited an admiration and activity among the learned
not inferior to that which had greeted Volta and his pile. Among the
foremost to elucidate the subject and extend the inquiry, Ampére stands
prominent. In less than three months after the publication of the Danish
philosopher’s researches, he laid a paper on electro-magnetism before the
Academy: of Sciences at Paris, demonstrating the dynamical laws of the
science from experiment and mathematical cadi@lation. He considers that
the battery calls into play two currents in thé wire, moving in opposite:
directions, and thereby producing magnetic action; and shews that similar
currents circulate about the poles of a magnet. The two currents exert a
dynamic action on each other, varying according to direction. ‘Two
straight wires, along which currents are transmitted, will attract or ‘repel
' each other, according to the direction of the currents. Let a line be
imagined intersecting both wires at right angles. Jf both currents move
towards this perpendicular, or both from it, the wires will attract each
other; but if. while one of the currents moves towards this perpendicular,
the other moves from it, then they will repel each other.’ In proof of
his statements, Ampère produced various contrivances, made chiefly of |
wire, to illustrate the phenomena; among them were small helices, which
behaved as magnets while a current was passing through them. In the same
year, too, Arago found that on plunging the wires of a battery into steel
filings, the latter attached themselves to the wires, and remained adherent

10 , X

‘RLECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

as long as the circuit was complete, but fell off on the instant of breaking -
contact, Here was another important step in advance: a wire could be
magnetised at pleasure, It led to the discovery by Mr Sturgeon, a few
years later, of magnets of almost inconceivable power, by placing a bar of
soft iron within a. helix of copper wire, connected with a battery. As in
the case gf the steel filings, it became a magnet, or ceased to be such,
every time that contact was made or broken. The straight bar was after-
wards bent in the form of a horse-shoc, and its attractive power so much
increased in consequence, that in some instances from two thousand to
three thousand pounds have been sustained. The new powér partook
somewhat of the tremendous, and every fact that threw light upon it served
but to stimulate the ardour of inquiry. Faraday's researches have ren-
dered signal service to the progress of clectro-magnetism, particularly his
discovery of induction, which he describes as ‘the effect of the actions of
contiguous particles.’ He tested it by an extensive series of experiments
on various solid and aériform substances, under different pressure and
temperature. The late Professor Daniell states, as an explanation of the
theory, that ‘as every electric current is accompanied by a corresponding
intensity of magnetic action at right angles to the current, good conductors
of electricity, when placed within the sphere of this action, should have a
current induced through them, or some sensible effect produced, equivalent
in force to such a current.’

To enumerate the names only of those who have advanced the science of
electro-magnetism, apart from any mention of their labours, would fill a
long list. At the period more immediately under notice, Schweigger, De la
Rive, Moll, Cumming, Barlow, and Christie, were multiplying facts, or
deducing laws from those already known. Besides these, Ohm of Nurem-
berg rendered distinguished service, by establishing the mathematical laws
of electric currents, and demonstrating the values really attaching to the
terms ‘quantity’ and Sintensity ;’ at the samc time giving formule Gn
which the various actions and effects might be calculated. Electricians,
wherever employed, have heen highly indebted to his labours, which have
so greatly facilitated the application of the science.

Prior to Qersted’s discovery of the deflection of the needle, several
attempts had been made $o: apply voltaic electricity to telegraphic pur-
poses. The first was by Soemmerring of Munich in 1811. But here we -
may pause a moment to consider the singular account recorded in the
‘Spectator.’ The author referred to by Addison is the Jesuit Famtano
Strada, who was master of rhetoric at Rome, and published his ‘ Prolu-
siones Academice’ in 1617. This work contains the account in question,
the purport being, that correspondence might be carried on between two
individuals widely separated by means of a certain magnetic agency.
According to Strada, it was not a new idea; he ascribes it to Cardinal
Bembo, who died at Rome in 1547, and explains that it came to him by
hearsay from several eminent persons, through whom it could be traced
back to its reputed originator. Without attaching undue importance to.
this statement, it seems nevertheless to carry us back to a date earlier than
any yet recor ded for the inception of a project i for rapid commun ication
to long distances.

. Btrada’s version, as.a recent translation ‘shew, ‘differs frapi the ‘anil |

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

mary given in the “Spectator.” He says in commencing: ‘ Magnoti
genus est lapidis mirabile ;’ and after describing the properties of the load-
stone, proceeds : ‘ Now, then, if you wish your distant friend, to whom no
letter .can-come, to know anything, take a disk (or dial), then write round
the edge of it the letters of the alphabet, in the order in'which children
learn them, and in the centre place horizontally a rod which has touched
the magnet, movable, so that it can touch whatever letter you wish. A
similar instrament is to be made, which ‘disk let the friend about to
depart’ take with him, and agree beforehand at what time, and on what
days he will examine whether the rod trembles, and what letter it points to
‘with ‘its index. ` These matters being thus arranged, if you desire privately
to speak to the friend whom some shore of the earth holds far from
you, lay your hand on the globe, turn the movable iron—there you see
disposed along the margin all the letters which are required for words ;
hither turn the indicator, and the letters, now this one, now that one,
touch with the style; and while you are turning the iron through them
again and again, you separately compose all the ideas in your mind.
Wonderful to relate, the far-distant friend sees the voluble iron tremble
without the touch of any person, and run now hither, now thither; con-
scious he bends over it, and marks the teaching of the rod, and follows,
reading here and there the letters which are put together into words; he
perceives what is nceded, and learns it by the teaching of the iron. And
moreover, when he sces the rod stand still, he, in his turn, if he thinks
there is anything to be answered, in like manner, by touching the various
letters, writes it back to his friend.’ Here Strada becomes impressed
with the importance of his subject, for he breaks out—‘Oh may this
mode of writing prove usefull Safer and quicker thus would a letter
speed, nor have to encounter the snares of robbers or impediments of
retarding rivers. A prince might do the whole business (correspon-
dence) for himself with his own hands. We children of scribes, emerg-
ing from the ‘inky flood, would then hang up our pens in votive offering
on the shores of the magnet.’

Without stopping to inquire whether in this Strada wished to perpetuate
the history of a lost art, or was merely giving play to his imagination, we
return to Soemmerring, who, in the year mentioned, proposed a scheme
for a voltaic telegraph to the Acadomy of Sciences at Munich. ` 1t compre-
hended as many wires as the letters of the German alphabet, and the
numerals © to 9, which terminated in thirty-five gold points in a vessel of
water,’ When the current passed from the pile, decomposition of the fluid
took place, and a bubble of oxygen or hydrogen appeared at the point or
letter to which attention was desired. Soemmerring appears to have been
aware that the motion of electricity was swifter than that of light; and in
his memoir he sets forth the advantages to be derived from such a form of
telegraph—its availability by night or by day, in fog or in cloud, and its
invisibility while en route. Tho contrivance, although ingenious, failed in

r

one particular: there was nothing to arouse the attention of the corre-

spondént. A means for this purpose was subsequently added by Schweigger,

who shewed also that two wires would be more effectual than the greater -

number, and that it would not be impossible to print the communications.

from one end of the wire to the other—thus anticipating two of the
12

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.-

most remarkable peculiarities belonging to the present form of electric
telegraph.

The deflection of the needle—that proof of ‘magnetic action at right
angles to the current’—gppears to have been most studied as a medium
for signals, and became the subject of eager experiment. The current,
however, when passed along any considerable length of wire, was found
insufficient to prodnee a.well-defined movement. This defect was reme-
died by Schweigger, in an instrument which he invented, and called the
nultiplier—a name expressive of its essential principle. It is astonishingly
sensitive, and has proved most valuable in the study of electro-dynamics.
The construction is based on the fact, that a current returning upon itself,
acts in all its parts, and causes a powerful deviation in a magnetic needle
placed within it. As described by Moigno: ‘A conducting wire twisted
upon itself, and forming a hundred turns, will, when traversed by the sane
current, produce an effect a hundred times greater than a wire with a single
turn; provided always that the electric fluid pass through the circumvolu-
tions of the wire without passing laterally from one contour to another.
This is a condition easy to fulfil. To make a multiplier, you take a silver
or copper wire of any length or size, closely enveloped in silk thread, and
wind it round a small frame, within which the needle is suspended on &
pivot, and leaving a few inches free at cach extremity. ‘These are called
the two wires of the multiplier, and when in work, the current enters by
one end and passes off at the other.’ With this contrivance, of which more
remains to be said, a great difficulty was overcome.

The discovery of thermo- -electricity by Seebeck of Berlin is so far
related to our subject as to claim a brief notice. He found that by
applying heat to one extremity, or to any part of pieces of metal, they
could be.made to give out electric currents. One end of a short bar ‘being
raised in temperature, a circulation of a current is produced through the
whole mass. Here is a phenomenon singularly illustrative of the mağ-
netism of the earth, and corroborated by Faraday’s recent discoveries.
‘The sun,’ it is said, ‘ would thus become the exciting agent, whose uniform
tide of heat, sweeping the tropical zone, would be productive of an immense
westerly ciroumfowing electric flood, and thus convert the terrestrial ball
into a grand thermo-electric magnet,’

The new science was gradually assuming a definite combination: two
French savens, in the course of their investigations, found that a long
extent of the iron of a railway could be used to complete a circuit, and
bring back the reverse current. Becquerel had shewn, too, in carrying out
Volta’s researches, that a pile might be constructed with a constant. though
feeble current ; and the finding of a stronger power became of importance.
The pile was replaced by batteries of various form, among which the con-
stant battery constructed by Professor Danicll supplied the long-sought
desideratum. The zinc was plunged into a solution of chloride. of sodium,
and the copper into.a solution of sulphate of copper. The products of
decomposition were disposed of by an ingenious contrivance, and less of
power proyided against, so that the action maintained its full fores for
a ‘considerable period. Batteries still more powerful have since heen
invented: the Hquids employed have been varied, and charcoal and pla~
tinum. substituted for copper. One es Wheatston2 reqnire ed but a single:

13

, CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

ani sulphate of copper, in which was plunged a porous vase filled with

a pasty amalgam of zinc, producing a constant action.’ Thus by degrees
the elements of telegraphing were prepared: there needed but the mind to
combine them.

This distinction is claimed by Professor Morse, an EEN having, as
he says, invented the first electro-magnetic telegraph while on his passage
from Havre to New York in 1832. His contrivance included a pen at one
end of a wire, which, as contact was made or broken, produeed an arbi-
trary alphabet of dots and strokes, which might represent definite charac-
ters. An experiment with a circuit of ten miles was tried before several
scientific men well known in the United States, and members of Congress;
and the result being favourable, .a sum of money was voted by the govern-
ment for a trial on a larger scale. The account of these proccedings
appears not to have been published earlier than 1837; meantime Baron
Schilling of St Petersburg had constructed an electric telegraph, but died
before its complete development. By his method, movements were
imparted to five needles, out of which a code of signals was formed.
Gauss and Weber's experiments and deductions, published in 1834,
brought the possibility of electro-telegraphy still more within reach. To
these two philosophers the theory of the science is materially indebted.
‘The first-mentioned, the venerable professor of Gottingen, has been called
its father, such are the sagacity and insight which he has brought to bear
on 80 intricate a subject.

We come now to 1837, the year in which the projects of electro-tele-
graphy became available realities. Steinheil of Munich succeeded in
sending a current from one end to the other of a wire 36,000 feet in length,
the action of which caused two needles to vibrate from side to side, and
strike a bell at each movement. The bells were made to differ in tone, so
as to indicate distinctly right and left signals; at the same time, to combine
a phonic and a written alphabet, certain points tipped with ink impressed
dots upon a band of paper, and recorded the desired message. In the
course of his researches Steinheil proved a fact, the most interesting per-
haps in telegraphic science—that instead of using two wires, the earth
would serve to complete the circuit. This verification of a phenomenon
so extraordinary in its nature—one which is still to be explained—has been
attended with the most important results in the economy of telegraphs,
and will tend more to keep Steinhcil’s name in memory than his mechanical
apparatus, which was said to be too complicated and tedious in operation
for any one but a German.

It was in 1837 also, that Wheatstone, whose name is so intimately
associated with telegraphic progress in England, took out his first patent
for an electric telegraph. He had been led to the invention by his experi-
ments to determine the velocity of electricity in 1834, and proposed a
system of five conducting wires in connection with as many needles, which
indieated the letters of the alphabet at the rate of twenty a minute.
Attention was to be drawn to the signals by the stroke of a bell, forming
part ofthe apparatus.

Tt would be supposed that-when the eye and the ear had been addressed,
telegraphic communication. had achieved all that was required of it;

but Mr Vorsselman de Heer of Deventer invented an apparatus which
14 7

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

imparted its signals through the sense of touch, and was based on the
principle that to produce an effect by this, medium demands a much
smaller power of electricity than to deflect a needle. He employed
ten wires, and obtained forty-five different combinations, which were felt
by placing the finger-tops on the keys of. the instrument, and attracted the
notice of the attendant by a wire attached to his person night and day:
‘even if in bed he was to be aroused by the shock. The cost would have
been about one-eighth of the usual expense of telegraphic apparatus at
that period. Much ingenuity was displayed in the whole arrangement,
which, under certain conditions, would be more useful and available than
any other.

In i840 Wheatstone had made improvements which greatly simplified
his first methods; the number of wires was reduced to two, while the
power of the instrument was increased, for thirty letters could be indicated
in a minute. Besides this, the same inventor shewed that the passage of
a current afforded means for other spheres of observation. Travelling at a
speéd that would circumvolate the globe seven or eight times in a second,
it might measure the rate of motion of projectiles, or regulate the move-
ment of.all the clocks in a country; and by an additional contrivance the
place of fracture in a wire could he ascertained without the necessity of
examining its whole length. A telegraphic wire was to bring down. from
a balloon, stationary at a considerable height, the readings of a set of
philosophical instruments; to record the state of fluctuations of a baro-
meter, thermometer, hygrometer, and magnetometer. The apparatus for a
series of experiments of this nature was actually prepared, and is still hept
in readiness for a fitting opportunity. This principle has since been
reduced to practice by Mr Smee -—

‘Behind my house,’ he observes, ‘is a small hothouse; and I conceived
the idea of constructing a simple telegraph which should inform me of the
temperature. Now my plants would be injured if the heat fell below 80°
or rose above 90°, and I therefore wished to have some contrivance
which should inform me in my own study whcther the temperature were
remaining or not within these limits. For this purpose a thermometer
was made for me, io which two platinum wires were inserted, which .
came in contact respectively with the mercury at those two points. By
this contrivance, whcu the heat either fell below or rose above those,
two points, the mercury and platinum were not in contact, and a voltaic
current could not be maintained. Telegraphic communications were laid
down from these two platinum wires to my dwelling-house; and a large
pair of zinc and copper plates were sunk into the ground for a@ battery.
By attaching the wires to a galvanometer we can always ask how tho
temperature is; and by attaching an alarum, a gardener might be warned
of any accident at any time of the night.’ Then in the same way that the
catch of the telegraph alarum is liberated, so might the stop of ponderous
machinery be released, regardless of distance, and effects of commensurate
importance be produced. With a proper combinacion of machinery, a lady,
seated in her drawing-room in London, might play Beethoven's symphonies
on the piane of her friend at Edinburgh; or a ringer in St Paul's belfry might
entertain the frequenters of the Parliament Square with a lively carillon
from the tower of old St Giles’s. Still mora remarkable is the ps aa

reales : | =

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

tion of electro-magnetism as a motive agent. If, as appears from experi-
ments -recently made in Ameri¢a, it can be made to move a ton weight of

_ fron, it, is not easy to define the limits of its power. ,

The employment of the'printing apparatus in 1843: gave to the electric

telegraph- ¿a wider and completer efficiency. This contrivance, when

attached to the telegraph maclainery, and set in motion by wheelwork,
caused a ribbon of chemically-prepared papcr to pass under a fine steet
point, which imprinted a series of arbitrary characters—dots and strokes—
simultaneously with their transmission from the other end of the telegraph,
however distant. Although seventy or eighty characters could be produced
in a minute, the whole process was tedious, as the message had first to
be punched in a strip of paper, and then written off after its delivery. In
America the preliminary punching was avoided by making the operator
open or close the galvanic circuit for longer or shorter intervals, by press-
ing on-the spring-key of the telegraph: according to the duration, strokes
or dots were produced. Since that time improvements have been made
which print the message in the Roman character, and accelerate the*rate
of transmission. The latter, there is reason to hope, will shortly become
still more rapid, should Mr Wheatstone succeed in his endeavour to com-
municate 180 distinct signals in a minute. Already Bakewell’s copying
telegraph is a great advance upon that of the arbitrary signs. ‘When
this means of correspondence is in operation,’ as is stated, ‘instead of
dropping a lettcr in the post-office box, and waiting days for an answer, we
may apply directly to the copying telegraph, have it copied at the distant
town in a minute or less, and receive a reply in our correspondent’s hand-
writing almost as soon as the ink is dry with which it was penned, There
are various means, too, for prescrving the secrecy of correspondence ; the
most crrious of which is, that the writing may be rendered nearly invisible
in all parts but the direction, until its delivery to the person for whom it
was designed.’

The success that has attended the progress of electro-telegraphy has, as
is usual in such eases, called up a host of claimants to the various inven-
tions or discoveries. More than sixty have been cnumerated. We are,
however, too apt to overlook the fact, that discowlty is rather the conse-
quence. of tendencies of thought and progress on the part of numbers,
than of sudden individual conception. The elaboration of a great moral
or acientific truth, and its application to the wellbeing and advancement of
society, are results not less honourable to those who have assisted in pro-
ducing them than to the prime originator—if such there be: remembering
always that but for the thought and travail of previous generations, our
own achievements would be slender indeed.

The first application of the electric telegraph was made on the Blackwall
Railway, from the station in the Minories to Brunswick Pier. On this line
thet start every quarter of an hour, and the stopping places are so
numerous, that it is not easy to conceive how the service could have been
performed without such aid as the néw mode of telegraphing was ealcu-
lated to afford: , The announcements of: departures, of stoppages, of
the number of,carriages attached. to the wire rope, accidents, er other
causes of delay, were regularly transmitted; and the business thereby main-

16 f 2

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

tained in full vigour and discipline. After this, other railway companies
availed themselves of the same indispensable agency, and telegraphs
were gradually stretched along the London and North-Western, Bouth-
Western, South- Eastern, and Eastern Counties lines. On the Great
Western the wires at first were placed inside a continuous tube, fixed a few
inches above the ground at one side of the way, but were ‘afterwards
strained on posts, as on other railways—an arrangement, with slight excep-
tions, now preyalent throughout Hritain. ‘This line had not long been
complete when a striking instance occurred of the service which the iele-
graph might render to society. A man of respectable exterior took his
seat im a first-class carriage at the Slough station, eighteen miles from
London: he was a murderer hurrying away from the yet warm body of his
victim ; the panting engine nears its destination; the eager criminal be-
lieves his escape certain; but the alarm has been given at the fatal spot,
and quick as lightning the telegraph transmits it to Paddington, with a
description of the suspected individual. In three minutes an answer
announces the arrival of the train, the identification of the fugitive, and
the certainty of his capture. There are few persons who will not remember
the impression mado on the public mind by this victory of science and
justice over crine.. Again: a communication transmitted from Paddington
immediately that the year 1845 commenced, was received at Slough in
1844, the clock at that place not having struck midnight. Though so short
a distance, the difference of longitude was sufficient to mark the incon-
eeivable velocity of the electro-magnetic current. Swift-footed Time was
henceforward to be beaten in the race. A still more remarkable instance
of the same nature occurred in America: a message flashed from Washing-
ton when the New Year was a quorter-hour old, was read off at New Orleans
with balf an hour of the old year yet to run.

The wire commonly used for telegraphs is about one-sixth of an inch
diameter, covered with a thin coating of zinc, or, as it is called, ‘ galv&n-
ised,’ to prevent oxidation. Besides this, it is found that the deposit from
damp and dust and other causes affords a very efficient protection. Four
miles of such wire weigh a ton. The posts to which it is attached are
fixed at from fifty to sixty yards apart—thirty or thirty-two to the mile.
To insure perfect insulation the wires are not permitted to touch the posts,
otherwise the current would be diverted downwards through the wood,
particularly in wet weather. Insulators of various forms, ‘rings, collars,
and double cones,’ are made of brown stoneware, which of all substances
yet tried throws off the wet most readily. A stone-pitcher, after being
plunged into water, is seen to retain scarcely a trace of the immersion
beyond a few drops on the surface. Even with this material it is some-
times difficult, during dense fogs or heavy rains, to preserve the integrity of `
the eurrent. |

Besides the supporting-posts, there are others called ‘ winding-posts,’ four
to the mile, to which the wires are connected in alternate half-mile lengths,
and stretched by means of a screwing apparatus. It-ig on these posts that
the stone collars are used; a sufficient number ‘being attachod to each
side, the wire is passed. through the eye and drawn tight, while to maintain
the communication uninterrupted, a loop of. wire is affixed to the main
lengths at a short distance on either side of the post, round. the sn ‘of

| Be 7

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

which it passes in a slight curve. To protect the. insulators as much as
possible from wet, they, are sheltered by a sloping wooden roof. The
pointed wire seen rising a few inches above the tops of the posts on some
lines is a lightning-conductor with its lower extremity buried in the earth.
A precantion not unnecessary, as thunder-storms produce singular effects
on the lines of telegraph.
` Qne wire only will suffice for the iransmission of correspondence between
any two places; the making use of a greater number, six, eight, or ten, as
may be seen on some railways, is merely for the sake of economy or con-
venience. It is found better in practice to keep one or two wires distinct
for the main termini or points of correspondence—say from London to
Derby—than to make them serve at the same time all the intermediate
stations, It is an arrangement which helps to simplify the working duties
of the office, and to facilitate them also, for with but one or two wires there
would be constantly-recurring delays and confusion, since while any two
places were intercommunicating all the others would have to wait. One of
the wires is sometimes employed exclusively for the alarums—that is, to
ring the bell at any station with which it may be desired to ‘speak.’
Wherever connection is made with an intermediate office, the main wire.is
cut, and a shackle inserted, and from either side of this a short wire is
stretched to the instrument; thus affording means for the passage of a cur-
rent up or down the line. The same contrivance would be adopted were
there but one wire to connect the two extremes of the line; and it is within
the bounds of possibility that some invention or adaptation will shew that
all the required services may be performed by a single conductor.
The wires, when in their place, are connected with the batteries and
telegraphic instruments at the respective stations; and here it becomes
necessary to consider the construction and mode of action of a battery.

- The Jatter may be familiarly described as a wooden trough, from two to

+

three feet long and about six inches wide, divided crosswise into twenty-
four compartments or cells—more or fewer according to circumstances—by
partitions of slate. Two plates of metal, copper and zinc alternately, are
placed in each cell, in such an order that all the plates of one kind face
towards one end of the trough, and all of the other kind to the other end.
A small strip or ribbon of copper unites each pair at the centre of their
upper edges, forming, as it were, so many curved handles, by which they
can bo lifted in and out. As soon, then, as the remaining vacant space in
each cell is filled with an acidulated fluid the action commences; the acid
begins to act on the zinc by dissolving it, the water contained in the solu-
.tion is decomposed, and hydrogen thrown off from the surface of the
copper plates ; while by a combination of oxygen, oxide of zinc is formed,
and this, dissolving in the acid—which is commonly sulphuric—sulphate of
zine is produced. These effects are the consequence of the general law
established in relation to voltaic electricity, ‘that by the simple contact of
dissimilar metallic bodies, a partial transfer of the electric fluid from one
to the other invariably takes place.’ A positive current is generated at
the zink, and passes to the copper through the intervening fluid in all the,
series of Cells; and continues to flow as long as contact is maintained
between the wires which depart from either end, whatever be their length.
Thor ox various contrivances for increasing and rendering continuous the
18 . l |

z ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

power of batteries, and for checking deterioration in the metal or acid,
which we need not stay to consider, as they do not affect the main
question. A l

The cells of telegraph batteries, instead of a fluid, aro filled with pnre
sand—a material chemically inert, moistened by pouring in the dilute
sulphuric acid—an. arrangement which admits of the apparatus being
removed from place to place without risk of spilling the contents, while
it diminishes waste of the plates without diminishing their power. The
zinc is most liable to dissolution, and would be rapidly exhausted were
it not for the protective influence discovered by Mr Sturgeon. Having
washed ,the plates clean, he dipped them into mercury, and the thin ad-
herent coat of the rarer metal is found to prevent effervescence of the
surface. Those which are known as amalgamated plates consequently last
longer than others left in their native state; and after a turn of service
they may be again washed and redipped. A well-prepared battery, with
occasional renewals of the acid, will maintain an effective working condition
during twelve or fifteen months. According to Mr C. V. Walker, to
whose work we are indebted for the substance of some of our details: ‘ The
telegraphs on the South-Eastern Railway, of 180 miles and forty-seven
stations, are worked with 2200 pairs of such plates; and the whole tele-
graph system in the United Kingdom empleys about 20,000 pairs.’

In preparing the batteries, it is possible to determine mathematically
beforehand the amount of resistance, and the force necessary to overcome
it; and thus to proportiun the number of plates to the distance to which
the wires extend. Large wires are better conductors than small ones.
Iron is a better conductor than copper, «nd copper than silver. The
several conditions may be calculuted from the formulæ laid down by Ohm.

The wires of the battery meet those of the telegraph in what is called
the electro-magnetic machine, which externally resembles a cabinet clock,
having a square dial-plate inscribed with the letters of the alphabet, &nd
certain arbitrary characters, and two hands placed side by side near its
centre. These hands are the needles which are the tongues of the appa-
ratus; in their vibrations to the: right and left, their starts and pauses,
the whole correspondence is conveyed. For cach needle visible on the
face of the instrument there is a corresponding one inside, the two being
so placed that the north pole of the one and the south pole of the other
are in thc same position, so as to neutralise their magnetism, or rather
the action of magnetism upon them. They are thus kept in a perpen-
dicular position, and obedient to the slightest impulse from the battery.
The inner needle is suspended within a coil or multiplier, which intensifies
the power of. the current at this particular spot, and is deflected to either
side at pleasure by movement of the levers or handles which close or open
the electro-magnetic circuit.

The telegraph wires finish in two terminals, which form part of the
mechanism, and are in connection with the magnet and the multiplier.
The battery wires are brought to two other terminals, connected also with
the same apparatus; se that in order to reach the telegraph wires, the
current must first excite the magnet and the needles. This action takes
place only when work is to be done; at other times the circuit is left
open. Instantancoualy, however, on making contact, the signals sared

- > 9

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE. °

at one end of the line are reproduced at the other; such is the astonishing
power of the magnet when rendered active. Messages of business or
friendship, congratulation or anxiety, may be sent from one end: of the
kingdom to the other with the velocity of lightning; on which Arago
observes, ‘the most extended and brilliant flashes of the first and second
order, those even which appear to develop their fires over the whole scope
of the visible horizon, are not equal in duration to the thousandth part of
a second.’

With all this speed, however, there is no actual motion, no absolute
passage pf a fluid. It is only that, by a law of polarity, one molecule
affects the other next to it; and so on arl infinitum, and with almcst inap-
preciable celerity, as long as the exciting cause remains. To demonstrate
the invisible- by the visible, we may compare it te the great tidal wave
which comes up from the South Atlantic at the rate of a thousand miles
an hour. Such a mass with such rapidity, it is evident, would instantly
overwhelm and destroy the mightiest barriers, and continents would be
swept away as fragile mounds. But it is not the water that moves; the
original impulse or motion, travelling from particle to particle, alone pro-
duces the phenomenon. So with what is called a current of electricity
along a conducting body.

When a message is to be sent, the clerk whose duty it is to work the
instrument, places the written document before him; and after striking
the ‘ringing key,’ to call the attention of his correspondent, takes one of
the levers which project from the base ef the machine in each hand, and
moving them from side to side produces corresponding and simultaneous
movements of the needles on his own and the distant dial-plate, and the
words are spelt off with great facility. Such is the quickness of appre-
hension acquired by practice, that the clerks can write the message as fast
as the needles deliver it; and it is suid that some of the more expert
would be able tu read it without error from a blank dial.

To expedite transmission, the communications are made as brief as
possible, by the elision of letters, and syllables, and sometimes of half a
word; besides which, many conventional signs are made use of. ‘We
have,’ says Mr Walker, ‘a signal for the period or full stop, and for para-
graphs; and we have one for underlining words. And we have many
very valuable special signals. There is also a signal among the clerks for
laughing, and one for the whistle of astonishment.’ Where secrecy is
desired, any two parties have only to agree to employ numcrals as letters,
or Lo reverse or transpose the alphabet at pleasure, in order to form a code
of signals which none but themselves shall be able to interpret. The
messages transmitted on the Admiralty service are based on a private
system, of which the chiefs alone understand the import.

With respect to communications of greater length, the writer just quoted
observes: ‘The rates at which newspaper dispatches are transmitted from
Dover to London, is a good illustration of the perfect state to which the
necdle-telegraph has attained, and of the apt manipulation of the officers in
„charge. ‘The mail, which leaves Paris about mid-day, conveys to England
dispatches containing the latest news, which are intended to appear in the
whole impression of the morning paper. To this end it is necessary-tpat a
copy be delivered to the editor in London about three o'clock in the morning.

in et

ELCCTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

The dispatches are given in charge to us at Dover soon after the arrival of
the boat, which of course depends on the ‘wind and the weather. The
officer on duty at Dover, having first hastily glanced through the manu-
script, to see that all is clear to him and legilic, calls ‘ London, and com-
mences the transmission. ‘The nature of these dispatches may be ‘daily
seen by reference to the ‘Times.’ The miscellaneous character ‘of the
intelligence therein contained, and the continual fresh names of persons
and places, make them a fair sample for illustrating the capabilities of: the
electric telegraph as it now is. The clerk, who is all alone, placing the
paper before him in a good light, and seated at the instrument, delivers the
dispatch, letter by letter, and word by word, to his correspondent in Lon-
don; and although the eye is transferred rapidly from the manuseript copy
to. the telegraph instrument, and both hands are occupied at the latter, he
very rarely has cause to pause in his progress, and as rarely also does he
commit an error. And, on account of the extremely limited time in which
the whole operation must be compressed, he is not oes like the printer, to
correct his copy.

‘At London there are two clerks on duty—one to read the signals as they
come, and the other to write. They have previously arranged their books
and papers; and as soon as the signai for preparation is given, the writer
sits before his manifold book, and the reader gives him distinctly word for
word as it arrives; meanwhile a messenger has been despatched for a cab,
which now waits in readiness. When the dispatch is completed, the ‘clerk
who has received it reads through the manuscript of the other, in order to
see that he has not misunderstood him in any word. The hours and
minutes of commencing and ending are noted; and the copy being signed, is
sent under official seal to its destination, the manifold fac simile being
retained as our office copy, tu authenticate verbatim what we have delivered.’
- On lith December 1849, to the great astonishment of the merchasts
and bankers of Paris, three gentlemen appeared on ’Change in that city, at
half-past one P.m., having with them 150 copics of the “Times, printed and `
pyblished in London ou the morning of the self-same day ; and not only did
the ‘Times’ contain the Paris news up to noon of the previous day, but
actually the closing prices of the Paris Bourse of the previous evening.

‘The electric telegraph contributed in no sinall degree towards the
aceomplishment of this feat. At eight minutes past one A.M., the dispatch
of 321 words, and the Bourse prices, equal to 55 words, were delivered
into our charge at Dover, having been conveycd thither from Calais in the
ordinary mail-boat. In exactly thirty-two minutes—namely, at forty
minutes past ore—a correct copy of both these documents was banded in
by us to the Times Office in London. The dispatch occupied us eighteen
minutes, being at tie rate of 17} words per minute ; the Bourse prices, two
minutes. In respect to the latter, the rate is high, because the larger por-
tion is anticipated, the mere fluctuations being all that is new. There was
nothing extraordinary to us in this, quickly as it was accomplished; indeed,
on the “following morning the writer in London was fairly beaten by the
telegraph—the words were read off faster than he could make a cleau copy.
of them.’

Au idea of the amount of telegraphic correspondence on a railway may
he formed from the fact, that on the South-Eastern line, ‘duritg th è three:

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

months ending October 17, 1850, 483% service messages were entered in the
Tonbridge books, and 5235 in those at Ashford.’ And in six months of
the same year the profits arising from the telegraph were £776, being at
“ the rate of 5 per cent. per annum, and an increase of. 1} per cent. over the
corr esponding six months of 1849, .

The proprietors of telegraphs inform us that the communications intrusted
to them for delivery comprise the whole catalogue of human wants and
wishes, business and pleasure, joy and sorrow, friendship and law. On
some occasions they have been asked to send a sum of money, or a small
parcel. along the wire, by indiviquals, too, whose surprise shewed the sin-
cerity of their belief that the instrument could perform what wa: desired.
Games of chess have been played between parties in distant towns—South-
ampton and London—the moves being flashed from place to place alter-
nately, as fast as they were made. Then the security which the telegraph
lends to railway travelling is not the least of fits merits: accident and
obstruction can at once be made known, and the remedy provided. ‘On
New-Year's Day 1850, a catastrophe, which it is fearful to contemplate, was
averted by the aid of the telegraph. A collision had occurred to an empty
train at Gravesend; and the driver having leaped from his engine, the latter
started alone at full spced to London. Notice was immediately given by
telegraph to Loudon and other stations; and while the line was kept clear,
an engine and other arrangements were prepared as a buttress to receive
the runaway. The superintendent of the railway also started down the
line on an engine; and on passing the runaway he reversed his engine, and
had it transferred at the next crossing to the wp-line, so as to be in the
rear of the fugitive. Ie then started in chase, and on overtaking the other
he ran into it at speed, and the driver of his engine tuok possession of the
fugitive, and all danger was at an end. ‘lwelve stations were passed in
safety; it went by Woolwich at fifteen miles an hour, and was within a
couple of miles of London before it was arrested. Ilad its approach been
unknown, the mere money-value of the damage it would have’ caused might
have equalled the cost of the whole linc of telegraph.’

The promptitude with which detection has followed fraud by the agency
of the telegraph is sometimes rather amusing. Mr Smee relates an instance:
‘One Friday night, at ten o'clock, the chief cashier of the bank received ' a
notice from Liverpool, by electric telegraph, to stop certain notes. The
next morning the descriptions were placed upon a card and given to the
proper officer, to watch that no person exchanged them for gold. Within
ten minutes they were presented at the counter by an apparent foreigner,
who pretended not to speak a word of English. A clerk in the office who
spoke German interrogated him, when he declared that he had received
them on the Exchange at Antwerp six weeks before. Upon reference to
the hooks, however, it appeared that the notes had only been issued from
the bank about fourteen days, and therefore he was at once detected as
the utterar of a falsehood. The terrible Forrester was sent for, who forth-
with looked him up, and the notes were detained. A letter was at once
written to Liverpool, and the real owner of ‘the notes came up to town on
Monday morning. He stated that he was about to sail for America, and
that whilst at amhotel he had exhibited the notes. The person in custody

advised him to atow the valuables iu his portmanteau, as Liverpool was a
re 22
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ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS. :

very dangerdus place for a man to walk about with so much money in his
pocket. The owner of the property had no sooner ‘left the house than his
adviser broke open the portmanteau and stole the property. The thief was
taken to the Mansion-House, and could not make any defence. The Sessions
were then at the Old Bailey. Though no one who attends that court can
doubt that impartial justice and leniency are administcred to the prisoners,
yet there is no one who does not marvel at the truly railway-speed -with
which the trials are conducted. By a little after ten the next moming—
such was the specd—not only was a true bill found, but the trial by petty-
jury was concluded, and the thief sentenced to expiate his offence by ten
years’ exile from his native country.’

The Electric Telegraph Company, incorporated in 1846, whose central
establishment is in Lothbury, behind the Bank of England, hold a patent
right for a term, in part expired, of fourtcen years: their chargo for the
use of it is £20 per mile. The building is amply furnished with all
the requisites for telegraph service; and by means of wires laid in
tubes under the surface of the streets, is connected with all but one or
two of the metropolitan railway stations, the post-office, the head police
station “in Scotland Yard, the Admiralty, the new Houses of Parliament,
Buckingham Palace, and the latter, by a further extension, are now
placed in communication with the Great Exhibition Building in Hyde
Park. Besides these, communications are complete with eighty different
places in the provinces, including the chief towns and outports. Electric
telegraphs, according tu the parliamentary enactment, ‘shall be open’ for
the sending and receiving of messages by all persons alike, without favour
or preference, subject to a prior right of use ther eof for the service of Her
Majesty, and for the purposes o: the company.’ A. proviso is also made
in favour of the secretary of state, who may, on extraordinary occasions,
take possession of all the telegraph stations, and hold them for a week, with
power to continue the occupation should the common-weal require it.
‘There have now,’ so runs the company’s official circular, ‘been estab-
lished in Edinburgh, Manchestér, Liverpool, Glasgow, Hull, and Newcastle,
Subscription News Rooms, for the accommodation of the mercantile and
professional interests, to which is transmitted by electric telegraph the
latest intelligence, including—domestic and foreign news; shipping news ;
the stock, share, corn, and other markets; parliamentary intelligence ; :
London Gazette; state of the wind and weather from above forty places in
England ; and thie earliest possible notices of all important occurrences.’
The ‘rate of charges for twenty words is—I1d. per mile for the first 50
miles; 4d. for the second 50; and d. for any distance beyond 100 miles.’
The lowest charge made is half-a-crown. From London to York for
twenty words, the cost would be 9s. ; to Edinburgh, 13s. ; to Glasgow. 14s. ;
and to other places in proportion. The number of miles of telegraph in
Great Britain at the present time is about 3000, which leaves about 4000
miles of railway unprovided for.

During the last session of parliament a second association was incor-
porated, to be known as the British Electric Telegraph Company, ‘for the
purpose of telegraphic communication upon a more economical scale
throughout the country, and for the purchase and use of patents.’ ‘Ihe
company’s central offices is at the Royal Exchange; they propose cone

oe
48

*
CHAMBERS’ 8 PAPEES FOR THE PEOPLE.

Forth to the American tariff of charges Tor the delivery of messages ; to sell
Licences ; and establish lines to all the chief towns in the kingdom. ‘Qne of
their projects is to connect Dublin with Belfast, and to cross the Channel
. from the latter town to Scotland: when completed, the capitals of the three
kingdoms will,be able to inter communicate at any moment. And the
redaction of charge which may be anticipated from the competition will, it
is to be presumed, bring the telegraph more than at present within the
means of the general public.

The spread of electric telegraphs in France has been extremely slow :
for a long time the government refused to abandon their well-developed
‘system of aerial telegraphs; and when with much reluctance they were
induced to avail themselves of the intinitely superior agency of electro-
magnetism, they stipulated that the signals should still be produced by
small instruments, counterparts on a diminutive scale of the apparatus con-
trived by Chappe. There were, however, too many practical difficulties in
the way, and ultimately the absurd condition was withdrawn in favour of
machinery similar to that used in this eountry, the government reserving to
itself the exclusive use and control of the lines. In 1845 and two following
‘years, the telegraphs extending from Paris to Orleans, to Rouen, to Lille
and Calais, and the Belgian frontier, and to Versailles, were commenced,
and brought into operation. ‘The results were such, that in January 1850
a commission was appointed to inquire further into the subject.

They drew up a favourable report, rec ommending the formation of addi-
tional lines, and the plan of stretching the wires on posts in preference to
placing thom in tubes underground, and that, the telegraphs should be open
to the use of the public. Among other economical advantages to result
from the further extension, was the saving of locomotive power on rail-
ways; for, in accordanee with the practice on the French lines, whenever a
train was twenty minutes late an assistant-engine was despatched to its
relieffrom one station after another all along the route—an arrangement
which not only involved considerable expense, but liability to accident also.
The construction of seven telegraphic lines was recommended ; five of the
number have been officially authorised—from Paris to Tounerze, Rouen to
Havre, Paris to Angers, Orleans to Châteauroux, and from the same city to
Nevers; and by a vote of the Assembly, 717, 095 francs are set apart to
defray the expenses of the necessary works. To afford the fullest facilities
to the government, wires arc led from the respective stations in Paris
to the hotel-of the Minister of the Interior, where the office is now open to
the public from 8 A.M. to 9 P.M. every day without exception. Three
hundred and one dispatches were transmitted in March, the first month
of opening. According to the scale of. charges—to send. a message
of twenty words 624 miles will: cost 3s. 34d., and 12s. for 620 miles.
Two hundred words for the same distances respectively will be 16s. 5d. and
58s. Ad, | At this rate, to send a message of 300 words from Paris to Calais
(185 miles) would cost more than 35s. The commission state, that from
seventy-five to eighty letters may be transmitted per minute. In the
course of their report they suggest, that as the line from the capital to
Dunkerque is onthe meridian of Paris, and one of the points of the great
` survey for the measurement of as are: -of the meridian soine fifty years ago,

2A

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

the establishment of an clectric telegraph will afford an excellent opportu-
nity for testing the former hy remeasurement.. The telegraphs complete
and in progress in France are about 1500 miles in length.

In Belgium, a commission was also appointed at the close of 1849 to
consider the same subject: the individuals named—one of them being
M. Quetelet—were eminently qualified for their duties. After a careful
examination of the systems of clectro-telegraphic connrunication employed
in other countrics—the burying of the wires under ground, as in Prussia,
and the stretching of them on posts, as in England and the United States—
the liability to accident from preineditated mischief, atmospheric or other
causes—they have decided in favour of wires above rather than below the
earth. They shew that the disturbances to which the apparatus is liable
from electricity of the air is nowhere so effectually guarded against as in
England, where conductors are attached to the posts and to the machinery
in the offices, and recommend the adoption of similar means of protection
on the Belgian lines, which they propose to establish from Brussels to
(Juiévrain—and to the Prussian frontier; from Malines to Ostend by way of
Ghent—and to Antwerp—the scveral distances amounting to about 300
miles. ` They estimate the annual receipts and savings from these various
sources at 86,000 francs; and acting on their report, the government has
granted a credit of 250,000 francs for carrying the projects into execution.
The central situation of Belgium with regard to other countries renders
the formation of these lines of essential importance in continental com-
munications.

Already the ramitications of clectro-telegraphs extend from one end of
Europe to the other: the lines to connect Petersburg with Moscow, and
with the Russian ports on the stack Sea and the Baltic, are in progress ;
other wires stretch from the capital of the czar to Vienna and Berlin,
taking Cracow, Warsaw, and Rosen on the way. Two lines, by different
routes —Olmutz and Brunn—unite Vienna with Prague, from whence an
offset leads to Dresden; a third enables the Austrian government to send
messages to Trieste—their outport on the Adriatic—325 miles distant; a
fourth communicates with the metropolis of Bavaria; and ‘since the 10th
January (1850), the “Gazette d’Augsburg” has published the course of
exchange in Munich twenty minutes after it has been declared in Vienna.’
Calais may send news to the city of the Magyar on the Danube; and ere-
long intclligence will be flashed without interruption from St Petersburg to
the Pyrenees. fuscany has 100 miles of telegraph under the direction of
Signor Matteucci; and a single wire, traversing the level surface of the:
Netherlands, unites Rotterdam with Amsterdam. Communities are learning
that the electric telegraph is an essential of good government; that police
without it is inefficient; that by it the better interests of humanity are
promoted. There is talk also of introducing the thought-flasher into that
land of wonders—Kgypt; to stretch a wire from Cairo ‘to Suez for the
service of the overland mail. Who shall say that before the present
generation passes away, Downing Street may not be placed in telegraphic
rapport with Calcutta ?

In Austria there are about 3000 miles of telegraph, one-fourth , being
gutta-percha-coated wire laid underground. Germany has 2500 miles

complete, and 1200 more in process of constructior. The Austrian govern-
: id

CIIAMBERS'’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.,

. ment steamboats are fitted with an ‘electric telegraph for communications
from the captain on deck to the engine-reom.

In a time when mechanical science scarcely admits the signification of
“impossible,’ the insular position of England would not long shut her out
from a nnion with those continental ramifications which we have briefly
noticed. The possibility of establishing the connection was satisfactorily
proved in August 1850, when a telegraph-wire was sunk across the Channel
from Dover to Cape Grisnez, on the French coast. On the 28th of that
month, after certain preliminary experiments had been tried, the Goliah
steamer started with a huge recl containing 25 miles of wire, coated with
gutta percha, on her deck, avhich was slowly unwound and submerged as
she left the land. A horse-bux was set up on the beach, to serve asa
temporary office for the instruments and operators; from which the wire
«was led through a lead pipe to some distance. beyond low-water mark, as
a measure of protection in a part the most exposed. A line of buoys
marked the track of the steamer; she travelled about four miles an hour,
and the wire was gradually sunk at the same rate by means of heavy
weights attached at regular intervals. A powerful set of batteries had
been provided, as one of the objects was, if possible, to work Brett's
printing telegraph ; and when the steamer had made good a portion of her
voyage, the communication was established, and words were printed at the
instrument on board the vessel—imperfectly, it is true; but the fact once
verified, the perfecting becomes matter of detail. The necdle instrument
played freely, and in the evening its signals shewed that the voyage had
terminated successfully. A message flashed from under the sea by the
opposite party announced, ‘We are all safe at Cape Grisnez,’ with the
inquiry added, ‘ Wow are you?’ Thus the international communication
was complete; but soon after interrupted by the breaking of the wiré,
which was too weak to withstand the actiog of the water and friction on a
rocky bottom.

As before observed, the possibility having been proved, the Submarine
Telegraph Company, whose patent embraces England, France, and Belgium,
set about preparations to re-establish the connection, on a scale calculated
to obviate the risk of accident. The wires, four or five in number, are to
be enclosed in cables several inches in thickness, and from twenty to
twenty-five miles in length, each weighing 400 tons. It is proposed to
have three or four such cables, to be anchored to the bottom two or more
miles apart, so that if one should fail, communication fay still be main-
tained by the others. Expectations are held out that the linc may again
be brought into working order during the present year (1851.)

It is in the United States of America that the electric telegraph has
been. most extensively developed and applied. Growing coincidently
with the system so successfully worked in our own country, an almost
limitless breadth of territory has: necessitated a proportionate extension of
the wires, amounting at present to more than 11 ,000 miles, under the manage-
ment of twenty-two companies. The lines in many instances are carried
across, the country, regardless of travelled thoroughfares; over tracts of
sand and swamp; through the wild primeval forest, ‘where man has not yet
began his contest with nature—where even the rudiments of civilisation

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

are yet to be learned. Away it stretches, thé metallic indicator of intel-
lectual supremacy, traversing regions haunted by the rattlesnake and the
alligator—solitudes that re-echo with nocturnal howlings of the wolf and
bear. Iconomy and rapidity of construction are prime desiderata in
America; and to insure the proper working of the telegraph in its direct
course across the country, the settlers who live noar the line are permitted
to make use of it on condition that they keep it in repair. By this means
communications are maintained from north to south, east aad west, through
all the length and breadth of the mighty Union, and with a frequency and
social purpose exceeding that of any other nation. From the frontiers of
Canada at Burlington, and from Halifax in Nowe Scotia, a line passes to
Boston, and thence in a southerly direction till it reaches the Gulf of
Mexico at New Orleans—a distance of 2600 miles. lt connects all the
great cities of the Atlantic coast—New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore,
Washington, Richmond in Virginia, Raleigh aud Columbia in South Caro-
lina, Augusta in Georgia, and Mobile in Alabama. In one stretch Maine
and Vermont, where winter with decpest snows and arctic temperature
usurps six months of the year, are united with the lands of the tropics,
where the magnolia blooms and palin-trees grow in perpetual summer.
From New Orleans another nerve of whe, more than 1000 miles long,
threads the valleys of the Mississippi and Ohio to Louisville and Cin-
cinnati; and subordinate lines bring the great Jakes—the inland seas—
into direct communicatiun with the occan-ports on the eastern shore.
In some instances the rivers are spanned by wires stretched on tall poles,
or laid in tubes of gutta percha along the bottom of the wider channels
or estnaries. Nothing stops the restless, enterprising spirit of the people;
and their project for uniting the Avlautic with the Pacitic, New York with
San Francisco, may be considered as far from visionary.

The scale of charges in the United States is much lower than in this
country: the electric telegraph is consequently more available to the
greater part of the population engaged in commercial affairs. A message
of ten words may be flashed from New York to St Louis, Missouri, for 1
dollar and 40 cents—each additional word being charged 3 cents; to
Cincinnati, 75 cents; to Bufalo, 500 miles, 40 cents; to Boston, 220 miics,
20 cents; to New Orleans, 24 dollars; and other places in proportion.
The tranpmitting apparatus used on the different lines is that severally
invented or cuntrived by Morse, House, and Bain; it prints the dispatches
as fast as they are delivered. On the mecting of the legislature at Albany
in 1847, the governor’s message, 25,000 letters, was flashed to New York,
150 miles distant, and printed at the same time in two hours and a half.
The president’s message, too, on the war with Mexico, was transmitted
from Washington to Baltimore, 40 miles, and permanently recorded at the
rate of ninety-nine letters a minute. Mr Morse in his Reports to Congress
mentions several instances of the utility of the telegraph. During the
popular disturbances at Philadelphia in 1844, ‘sealed dispatches weve sent
by express from the mayor of Philadelphia to the president of the United
States. On the arrival of the express at Baltimore, the purport of the
dispatches transpired; and while the express train was in preparation, the
intelligence was sent ọn to Washington by telegraph, accompanied by är,
order from the president of the railroad company to prevent the rol

CUAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

train from leaving until the express should arrive. The order was given
and complied with. The express had a clear track, and the president and
cabinet, (being in council) had notice both of the fact, that important
dispatches were on the way to them, and of the nature of those dispatches ;
so that-when the express arrived, the answer was in readiness for the
messenger. Again: ‘When the Hibernia steamer arrived at Boston in
January 1847, with news of the scarcity in Great Britain, Ireland, and
other parts of Europe, and with heavy orders for agricultural produce, the
farmers in the interior of the state of New York, informed of the facts by
magnetic telegraph, were thronging the streets of Albany with innumer-
able team-loads of grain almost as quickly after the arrival of the steamer
at Boston as the news of that arrival could ordinarily have reached them.’

Apart from business and politics, the Americans have mede the electric
telegraph subservient to other uses: medical practitioners in distant towns
have been consulted, and their prescriptions transmitted along the wire ; aud
a short time since a gallant gentleman in Boston married a lady in New York
by telegraph---a process which may supersede the necessity for elopement,
provided the law hold the ceremony valid. Music, or at least the rhythm
of music, has been conveyed by the same wonderful agency. The observer
of the fact in New York tells us: ‘We were in the Hanover Street office
when there was a pause iu business operations. Mr W. Porter of the
office at Boston asked what tune we would have. We replied ‘Yankee
Doodle,’ and to our surprise he immediately complied with our request.
The instrument commenced drumming the notes of the tune as perfectly
and distinetly as a skilful drummer could have made them at the head of a
regiment ; and many will be astonished to hear that ‘ Yankee Doodle’ can
travel by lightning. We then asked for ‘ Hail Columbia !’ when the notes
of that national air were distinctly beat of. We then asked for ‘ Auld
lang syne,’ which was given, and ‘Old Dan Tucker,’ when Mr Porter also
sent that tune, and, if possible, in a more perfect manner than the others.
So perfectly and distinctly were the sounds of the tunes transmitted, that
good instrumental performers could have had no difficulty in keeping time
with the instruments at this end of the wires.’

A favourable idea of the immediate practical utility of the telegraph
may be gathered from a communication to the present writer by a friend
in New York :— The telegraph,’ he writes, ‘is used in this country by all
classes, except the very poorest—the same as the mail. A man leaves his
family for a week or a month; he telegraphs them of his health and
whereabouts from time to time. If returning home, on reaching Albany or
Philadelphia, he sends word the hour that he will arrive. In the towns
about New York the most ordinary messages are sent in this way: a joke,
an invitation to a party, an inquiry about health, &. In our business we
use it continually. The other day two different men from Montreal
wanted credit, and had no references; we said: “ Very well; look out the
goods, and we will see about it.” Meanwhile we asked our friends in
Montreal—‘‘Are Pump and Proser good for one hundred dollars each?”
The:answer was immediately returned, and we acted accordingly ; probably
much to our customers' surprise. The charge was a dollar for cach
message, distance about 500 miles, but much further by telegraph, as it has

to go a round to avoid the water. If my brother gocs to Philadelphia, he
28

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

telegraphs, “ How is the family?” “ What is doing?” I answer: “All
well ”—“ Sales so much ;” and so on to the end of the chapter.

‘A good deal of our telegraph was put up slightly at first, and was often
destroyed by storms. Now it is made with heavier wire, on posts from eight
to twelve inches diameter. The lines cross the North River (the Hudson),
suspended from the top of a very high pole on each side, placed on the top
of the hills. The wire goes over at one stretch; the distance about a mile,
but still hanging high enough in the centre to allow the tallest ships to
pass under it. At the offices they are accommodating, and will inquire
about messages that have miscarried, or have not been answered, without
extra charge.’

The electric clock was an obvious result of the electric telegraph: a plate
of zinc and another of copper buricd in the earth, and connected by wires
with the wheelwork, develop sufticient natural magnetism to keep a time-
keeper going with the strictest regularity for several years. As the
pendulum swings, contact is alternately made and broken, and this action
will coptinue until the plates are exhausted. With currents supplied from a
battery, it is clear that the movement may become perpetual; and by means
of telegraphic communications, any munber of clocks may be made to move
syuchronously with one central clock regulated by astronomical observa-
tion; cach would advance a second or portion of a second at one and the
same beat. The invention of this remarkable machine is due to Mr
Wheatstone, who proposed it to the Astronomical Society ten years ego,
when the wide applicability of the principle gave rise to the remark, that
it would soon become as possible to have time ‘laid on’ to our houses as
water or gas. One possibility suggests another, and presently we find the
Americans making use of the electric telegraph to determine differences of
longitude. Supposing the time-keeper of the Greenwich Observator¥ in
communication with a clock at Edinburgh, the latter would beat Greenwich
time, whereby the difference between the two places would be determined
to the fraction of a second. The means of intercommunivcation being so
rapid, comparisons can be instituted to any extent, and the severest tests
applied to insure accuracy; and by the aid of the printing apparatus, the
observations are recorded at the precise instant of their occurrence. The
first experiment was tried along the telegraph from Cincinnati to Pittsburg,
by Dr Locke of the former city, who contrived some ingenious machinery
for the purpose. We are informed that ‘it was eminently successful, and
the registering of the seconds of time on the ruming fillet of paper was
continued for two hours at all the offices along the line, much to the
astonishment of the operators.’ The officer of the United States Coast
Survey regards ‘the value of a night’s work with a transit instrument by
the pripting method, as about ten times greater than by the niethod now
in use among astronomers.’ In the Report for 1848 we read: ‘This year
we made abundant experiments on the line from Philadelphia to Louisville,
a distance in the air of 900 miles, and in circuit of 1800 miles. The per-
formance of this long line was better than that of any of the shorter lines
has hitherto been.

‘ Not more than two or three good astronomical nights, at Cincinnati and
Philadelphia, were lost, by failure of any part of the line, in the pana of

eT

CHAMBERS’ S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

two months nearly of our stay at Cincinnati. I learn from an authentic
source that the same success attends the work from Philadelphia to
St Louis, a distance of circuit one-twelfth of the earth’s circum-
ference.’ Great as this distance is, an attempt is to be made to exceed it
as soon as circumstances permit, on the line from Halifax to New Orleans,
in determinations of longitude.

This method of observing is regarded by the astronomer-royal as of so
much importance, that he proposes to introduce it at Greenwich. In dis-
cussing the subject before the Astronomical Society, he explained that:
‘In ordinary transit observations, the observer listens to the beat of a
clock while he views the heavenly bodies passing across the wires of the
telescope ; and he combines the iwo senses of hearing and sight (usually
by noticing the place of the body at each beat of the clock) in such a
manner as to be enabled to compnte mentally the fraction of the second
when the object passes each wire, and he then writes down the time in an
observing-book. In these new methods he has no clock near him, or at
least none to which he listens: he observes with his eve the appulse of the
object to the wire, and at that instant he touches an index, or key, with
his finger; and this touch makes, by means of a galvanic current, an im-
pression upon some recording apparatus (perbaps at a great distance), by
which the fact and the time of the observation are registered. He writes
nothing, except perhaps the name of the object observed.’

The experience hitherto obtained of the new method shews that-in what
are,termed ‘irregularities’ in observation, the amount ‘is only about one-
fourth’ of that which ocewrs in the old method; whether because the
sympathy between the eye and the finger is more lively than between the
cye and the car, remains to be determined. The astronomer-royal pro-
poses to use the ‘centrifugal or conical-pendulum clock’ as an instrument
superior in every way to those used in America; and ‘ considering,’ as he
states, ‘the problem of smooth and accurate motion as being now much
nearer to its solution than it had formerly been, it might be a question
whether, supposing a sidereal clock made on these principles to be mounted
at the Royal Observatory, it shoul be used in communicating motion to
a solar clock. It might by some persons be thought advantageous, even
now, that the drop of the signal-ball (at one hour Greenwich mean solar
time) should be effected by clock machinery; and it is quite within possi-
bility that a time-signal may be sent from the Royal Observatory to diffe-
rent parts of the kingdom at certain mean solar hours every day, by a
galvanic current regulated by clock machinery.’ We may add that at
Boston, U. S., the true time is received every day from the Cambridge ob-

. Servatory, four miles distant, for the service of the shipping in the harbour.

Meteorological, as well as astronomical science, is also to be promoted
by means of the telegraph, and with benefit to life and property. Vessels

‘about to sail from the northern to the southern ports of the United States

are now detaincd when news arrives of a storm or tornado having broken
out in the lower latitudes; and in our own country the state of the weather
is communicated every day from stations in all parts of the kingdom to one
central office, where the returns are published. Many valuable results
have already been obtained; and with further experience in working out
the system, it will prove directly and practically advantageous. `

30-

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.

The disturbances to which the electric telegraph is liable from atmo-
spheric and other canses, present several phenomena of interest to the
scientific observer. During thunder-storms the needles are sometimes
violently agitated, or altogether deprived of their electricity; and the
influence of the earth’s magnetism is frequently such as to cause consider-
able Weflections, even where the wires are ‘under ground. Mr Barlow of
Derby, in an account of his experiments on this latter subject, published
in the ‘Philosophical Transactions,’ states that a regular diurnal action
of the needles is produced, independently of the batteries, on telegraph
wires connected with the earth in two places: where not so connected,
no deflection is observable. He considers, ‘that this motion is due to
electric currents passing from the northern to the southern extremities of
the telegraph wires, and returning in the opposite direction; and that,
exclusive of the irregular disturbances, the currents flow in a southerly
direction from about 8 or 9 A.M. until the evening, and in a northerly
direction during the remainder of the twenty-four hours.’ Sometimes the
perturbations are coincident all over the kingdom, as was the case on Sep-
tember 24, 1847, when sudden deflections of the needles occurred from Devon-
shire to Scotland, and were also ohscrved in other parts of the world at
the same time. The aurora, too, is another exciting cause. Mr Barlow
believes that he can predict this phenomenon fiom the movements of the
necdics, and is supported in his views by other observers. According to
De la Rive: ‘The remarkable effect which M. Matteucci observed in the
anparatus of the electric telegraph between Ravenna and Pisa, during the
magnificent aurora of November last, shews clearly the existence of a
current circulating upor the surface of the earth; and which, rising by
the telegraph wire, passed partly by this better conductor. The sounds
which are given in certain meteorological circumstances by long iron wires
stretched in a north and south direction, are clear evidence that they are
traversed by a current which probably arises from those which circulate
upon the surface of the earth from north to south in our hemisphere. It
would be very interesting to take advantage of telegraph wires having a
direction more or less coincident with that of the declination of the needle,
for the purpose of making, when they are not in use for their nsual pur-
poses, sume observations to detect and measure the electric currents which
probably traverse them—-which could be easily done by completing the
communication of these wires with the ground at one of their extremities
by means of a multiplying galvanometer. The comparison of results thus
oLtained, with those of simultaneous observations of the diurnal variations
of the magnetic needle, would certainly present much interest, and might
Joad to meteorological conclusions of a remarkable kind.’ It is said that
when telegraph lines are erected in India, some particularly interesting
phenomena of terrestrial magnetism will be witnessed.

Our brief historical sketch offers another exemplification—and not
among the least interesting—of the onward workings of the human mind.
From timid and uncertain beginnings the electric telegraph lias advanced
to a high state of usefulness and perfection. Available alike for the
humblest of social pprposes, and the daring endeavours of science, it
reaches a supereminent point when the measured. flight of time, the

movements of stars and planets, and investigations of atmospheric and
a 31

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

magnetic mysteries, become the subject of its transcendental powers. In
contemplating the nature and scope of the phenomena, we may say
without irreverence that the sublime inquiry—‘ Canst thou send lightnings,
that they may go, and say unto thee, Here we are ?’—has, in one grand

sense, been answered in the affirmative.

THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH.

Hark! the warning needles click,
Nither—thither—clear and quick.
Swinging lightly to and fro,
Tidings from atar they shew,
While the patient watcher reads
As the rapid movement leads.

Ne who guides their speaking play
Stands k thousand miles away.

Sing who will of Orphean lyre,
Ours the wonder-working wise !

YFloquent, though all unheard,
Swiftly speeds the secret word,
Licht or dark, or foul or fair,
Still a message prompt to bear:
None can read it on the way,
None its unseen transit stay.
Now it comes in sentence brief,
Now it tells of loss and grief,
Now of sorrow, now of mirth,
Now a wedding, now a birth,
Now of cunning, now of crime,
Now of trade in wane or prime,
Now of sate or sunken ships,
Now the murderer outstrips,
Now it warns of failing breath,
Stiikes or stays the stroke of death.

Sing who will of Orphean lyre,
Ours the wonder-working wire !

Now what stirring news it brings,
Plots of emperors and kings;

Or of people grown to strength
Rising from their knees at length:
These to win a state—or school;
Those for flight or stronger rule.
All that nationg dare or feel,

All that serves the commonweal,
All that tells of government,

On the wondrous impulse sent,
Marks how bold Invention’s flight
Makes the widest realins unite.

It can fetters break or bind,
Foster or betray the mind,
Urge to war, incite to peace,
Toil impel, or bid it cease.

Sing who will of Orphean lyre,
Qura the wonder-working wire !

Speak the word, and think the thought,
Quick ’tis as with lightning caught,
Ovyer—under—lands or seas,

To the far antipodes,

Now o’er cities thronged with men,
Forest now or lonely glen ;

Now where busy Commerce broods,
Now in wildest solitudes ;

Now where Christian temples stand,
Now afar in Pagan laud.

Here again as soon as gone,

Making all the earth as one.
Moscow speaks at twelve o’clock,
Loudon reads cre noon the shock;
Seems it not a feat sublime,
Intellect hath conquered Time!

Sing who will of Orphean lyre,
Ours the wonder-working wire !

Flash all ignorance away,
Knowledge sceks for freest play;
Flash sincerity of speech,
Noblest aims to all who teach;
Flash till bigotry be dumb,

Deed instead of doctrine come;
Flash to all who truly strive,
Hopes that keep the heart alive;
Flash real sentiments of worth,
Merit claims to rank with Birth;
Vlash till Power shall learn the Right,
Flash till Reason conquer Might;
Flash resolve to every, mind,
Manhood flash to all mankind.

Sing who will of Orphean lyre,
Ours the wonder-working wire !

FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.

T the middle of the eighteenth century, at the village of Rammenau,

near Pulsnitz, in Upper Lusatia, there livcd and worked among his
contemporaries a certain manufacturer of ribbons, named Christian Fichte.
He, recently married, and reputably established in trade there, paying rates
aud taxes, and other like dues and imposts, cheerfully fronted the world,
and took thankfully from fortune whatever bonefits she sent him.

Among the most memorable of these was a fnst-horn son, who struggled
into existence on the 19th of May 1762. This is he who, being sub-
sequently baptised according to orthodox prescription, was thereafter
called by the name of Johann Gottlieb Fichte—a name since considerably
well known, and not mdifferently respected, by all persons who are anywise
acquainted with German Transcen.lentalism.

As the boy grew up he shewed signs of extraordinary capacity, and
waxed steadily in favour with all who were interested in his welfare. Log
before he was old enough to be sent to school his father had taught himjto
road; taught him also a number of pious songs and proverbs, and initiated
him somewhat into the higher mysteries of Bible-history and the Catechism.
Oiten, by way of entertaining his curiosity, the father would relate to him
the story of his personal wanderings in Saxony and Franconia, whither, in
conformity with a well-known German usage, he had gone in former years
for improvement in his calling. To these recitals young Gottlieb listened
with exceeding interest, and was thereby awakened into some vague sym-
pathy with the existing outward world. The wonder and manifold train
of feelings thus excited fostered in the boy a fondness for solitary rambles,
and often impelled him forth into the lonelysand quict fields, where -for
many hours he would hold a still communion with his thoughts. A quiet,
pensive child, he was already receiving influences and forming habits which
were afterwards to grow to great results. a

Among the persons whose attention young Fichte very soon attracted
was the clergyman of the village, who, perceiving Lis talents, often assisted
him with instruction, Happening one day to ask him’ how much he thought
he could remember of the last Sunday’s sermon, the boy astonished the
good pastor by giving a very correct account..of the course of argument
pursued in the discourse, and also of the several texts of Scripture quoted
in illustration. This circumstance was subsequently mentioned incidentally
to a nobleman: residing in the village; atid. when, a short time ara

No. 72. : p of i

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

@ certain Baron von Miltitz, who was on a visit at the castle, chanced to
“express his regret at having arrived too late for sermon on the Sunday
morning, he was half-jestingly apprised that it was of very little conse-
quence, as there was a boy in the neighbourhood who was capable of
repeating it from memory, and might easily, be sent for, if desired, to
reproduce it for the bavon’s edification. A messenger was presently des-
patched for little Gottlieb, who very soon appeared, dressed in a clean
smock-frock, and bearing in his hand a most enormous nosegay, as a token
of respect from his mother to the mistress of the castle. He answered all
questions put to him with a quiet and natural simplicity; ard on beins
requested to repeat as much as he could recollect of the moruing’s sermon,
he procecded to deliver a long and eloquent discourse, which, from its grave
and impressive tendency, threatened rather to discompose the gaiety of the
company. Desiring to escape this consummation, the count thought it
necessary to interrupt him, signifying doubtless that, of au admirable
memory and good natural powers of elocution, a sufficient proof had heen
exhibited. The young preacher, however, interested his auditory greatly,
and more especially the baron, who, after making some inquiries of the
clergyman, which were favourably answered, determined to undertake the
charge of the boy’s education. The consent of the parents having been
with difficulty obtained, young Vichte was shortly consigned to the care
of his new patron, and departed with him, as it seemed, for foreigu parts.
His destination was the castle of Sicbencichen, a country seat of the
baron, situated on the Elbe, near Meissen. Here the heart of the poor boy
sank within him, as he daily contemplated the gloomy grandeur of the
baronial hall, and the mountains and dark forests by which it was surrounded.
His first sorrow, his carliest trial, had come to him in the shape of what a
misjudging world might regard as a singular piece of good fortune; and so
deep a dejection fell on him, as seriously endangered his health. His kiud
fosterfather, entering into the feelings of the child, prudently removed him
from the lordly mansion to the residence of a country clergyman in the
neighbourhood, who, though himself without family, was greatly attached
to children. Under the care of this worthy pastor and his wife, Fichte
passed some of the happiest years of his life, and ever afterwards looked
back upon them with tenderness and gratitude. Here he received his
first instruction in the ancient languages, in which, however, he was left
pretty mach to his own efforts, seldom receiving what might bo called a
regular lesson from his teacher. This plan, though it might invigorate and
sharpen his faculties, left him imperfectly acquainted with grammatical
principles, and retarded to some extent his subsequent progress. Iie,
nevertheless, made rapid advances; and his preceptor soon ‘perocived the
insufficiency of his own attainments for furthering the studies of a pupil
so promising, and therefore urged upon his patr on the desirability of
sending him to some public school. He was accordingly sent, frst to the
town school of Meissen, and afterwards to a a pennig at Pforta,
near Rawnburg.
This latter establishment retained many traces: of a shonkish origin: the
teachers and papils lived in cells, and the boys were permitted to leave the
interior only ante a week, and then under inspection, to visit a particular
player ound jn the neighbourhood. The’ stiffest formality pervaded the

FICHTE : A BIOGRAPHY.

whole economy of the place; the living spirit of knowledge was unrecog-.
nised in its antiquated routine, and the generous desire of excellence
excluded by the petty artifices of jealousy. The system of fagging existed
ju full force, and with it the usual consequences—ivrauny an the one side,
and cunning and dissimulation on the other. Fichte’s native strength of
character guarded him somewhat from the evil influeuces around him, yet
he confessed that his life at Pforta was, anything but favourable to his
integrity. He found himsclf gradually reconciled to the constraint of
ruling his conduct by the opinion of his compaffions, and compelled to
practise occasionally the same artifices as others.

Fichte was scarcely thirteen years of age when ho entered this seminary.
Most. painful was the transition to its gloomy monastic buildings from the
joyous freedom of fields and woods, where he had been accustomed to wander
at will; but still more painful were the solitude and aridity of the moral
desert into which he was introduced. His sadness and tears exposed him
to the derision of his schoolfellows: and he, shy and retiring, shrunk
within himself, restrained his tears, or suffered them to flow only in secret.
Here, however, he learned the useful lesson of self-reliance—so well, though
su bitterly taught, by the absence of sy mpathv in those around us; and from
ilis time to the close of his life it was never forgotten. The wretched-
ness of his situation meanwhile, led him to couiemplate escape. He had
met with a copy of ‘ Robinson Crusoc,’ and his imagination was so fascinated
by the wild solitary life therein depicted, that he conceived the project of
scoking out some similar seclusion. On some far-off island of the ocean,
beyond tho reach of men mal pedagogues, and of the sneering students that
mocked at his distress, Le would iix lis solitary dwelling-place, and live
golden days of happiness and freedom! The manner in which he attempted
to carry his notion into execution favourably illustrates the bent of hig
character. Nothing could have been easier for him than to have departed
unperceived on one of the days when the scholars went out to the play-
ground; but he scorned to steal away in secret; he wished to make it
evident that his departure was occasioned by necessity, and was taken with
deliberate determination. He therefore made a formal declaration to his
superior, a lad who had made a cruel and oppressive use of the brief autho-
rity intrusted to him, that he would no longer endure the ‘treatment he
received, and that if not amended, he would leave the school on the first
opportunity. This announcement, as may bè supposed, was received with
laughter and contempt, and Fichte thenceforth considered himself in honour
free to fulfil his resolution. |

Accordingly, one morning he departs, having previously studied his
intended ronte upon the map. He is off on the highway to Raumburg: the
world is all before him, and the desert island in the distance. But now, as
he walks along, he remembers a saying of his dear old friend the pastor,
that one should never begin an important undertaking without a prayer for
Divine assistance. He turns, therefore, and kneeling down on a hillock
by the side of the road, in the innocent sincerity of his heart he implores
the blessing of Heaven on his wanderings. As he prayed it occurred ta
him that his disappearance must occasion great grief to his parents:
‘never, perhaps, might he see them again!’ This terrible thought over:
came him; the joy which he had felt in his emangipstion was ee isto.,

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

contrition; and he resolved to return, and meet all the punishments that
might be in reserve for him, so that he should be able to ‘look once more
on the face of his mother.’ On his way back he met those who had been
sent in pursuit of him; for as soon as he had been missed, the conversation
between him and his superior had boen reported to the authorities. When
taken before the rector, Fichte immediately admitted that it had been his
intention to run away, but at the sume time related the whole story of his
persecutions, atid of the motives which had influenced him in taking the
step, with such straigMttorward -simplicity and openness, that the rector
became interested in his behalf, and not only remitted his punishment, but
selected for him, from among the elder scholars, another senior, who treated
him with the greatest kindness, and to whom he became warmly attached,
the two being subsequently friends at the same university.

From this time Fichte’s residence at Ptorta was rendered gradually more
tolerable to him. He entered zealously upon his studies, and by continued
industry supplied the defects of his previous education. In 1780, at ihe
age of eighteen, he entered the university of Jena. Ile attached himself
to the theological faculty, his inclinations at this time being towards tlic
calling of a clergyman. Subsequently he removed to Leipsic, and there
attended a course of dogmatic lectures, though, as it afterwards appeared,
with little satisfaction. In attempting to obtain a clear comprehension
of the theological doctrine of the Divine attributes, the creation, freedom
of the will, and other like questions, he encountered unexpected difficul-
ties, which led him into a wider circle of inquiry, and finally resulted
in his abandoning theology for philosophy. Some hints of the early
direction of his philosophical studies may be gathered from his letters
written at this period. The question which chiefly engaged his atten-
tion appears to have been the very common one of Liberty and Neccs-
sity; in regard to which he seems to have rejected the doctrine of free-will,
considered as absolute’ indifferent self-determination, and to have adopted
the view which, to distinguish it from Fatalism, has been named Determinism.
According to this, every complete and consisteut philosophy exhibits a
deterministic side; the idea of an ultimate and all-directing Unity being
the beginning and end of metaphysical investigation. Thus while Fatalism
sees in this highest unity only an unconscious and mechanical necessity,
Determinism recognises it as the highest disposing reason—the intinite
originative influence to whieh the determination of each living being
is not only to be referred, but in which it is fundamentally subsistent.

On communicating his opinions to a Saxon preacher who had consider-
able reputation for his philosophical attainments, Fichte was told that he
had adopted Spinozism. Up to this time he was unacquainted with
Spinoza’s writings, and his first knowledge of them was subsequently
derived through Wolff's refutation. His attention being turned in this
direction, he applied himself to the study of Spinoza’s Ethics, which made
a powerful impression upon his mind, and confirmed him for a time in the
opinions he had adopted. In afteryears, however, the deterministic theory
left him disastisfied; the indestructible feeling of independence and freedom
of which heap inwardly conscious, and which was also powerfully con-
firmed by tha ‘energy of his own character, not being explainable on
exclusively detorministic principles, he was constrained to abandon that

FICHTE : A BIOGRAPHY.

point of view, and accept the doctrine of free self-dctermination as the
only true and intelligible basis of being.’ This is the ground-principle of
his philosophic creed, which so far stands opposed to the doctrine of
Spinoza, although a general harmony of details is observable in the two
systems; both, nevertheless, shewing marks of individual character, and
each being properly the ‘scientific expression of the spiritual life of its
originator.’

Whilst engaged in these lofty speculations, Fichte receivad intelligence
of the death of his benefactor, and found himself thrown upon his own
resources. These, unhappily, were of the most unpromising description.
Nevertheless he adjusted himself to his fortunes, and for four years earned.
a precarious livelihood as an occasional tutor in various houses in Saxony.
His studics were desultory, and subject to continual interruption ; he had
no means: for procuring books, no opportunities of intercourse with
persons of cultivated and matured mind: his life was daily little better
than a sacrifice to the mere necessity of living. He had, however, a very
sufficient fund of courage, an iron resolution, and a hopeful elasticity of
disposition, that would not readily yield to disappointment. He learned to
regard the privilege of existence apart from its contingencies, and manfully
determined to live obediently to the high and imperative law of his con-
science, and abide by the result. ‘It is onr business,’ said he, ‘to be truc
to ourselves ; the consequence is altogether in the hands of Providence.’
Diligent in business, fervent in spirit, he went on his way doing what came
to hand; thankful for the day of small things, and trustful for the
future.

His favourite plan of lite at this period, and for some time afterwards,
was to become a village clergyman in Saxony, and amid the leisure which
such an occupation would afford him, to prosecute without disturbance his:
own intellectual culture. But this scheme could not be carried into prac-
tice, inasmuch as he had not completed his theological studies, and was
without the means required for continuing them. With a view to supply
his deficiencies in this respect, he, in 1787, addressed a letter to the presi-
dent of the Consistory of Leipsie, requesting to be allowed a share of the
support often granted to poor students at the Saxon universities, until the
following Easter, at which time he promised to present himself before the
Consistory for examination. ‘Without this,’ said he, ‘my residence av
Leipsic is of no avail to me, for I am compelled to give all my time to
extraneous pursuits, in order to obtain a livelihood.’ No notice, however,

was taken of his request: that blissful Saxon parsonage, with its abundant
leisure for cultivating literature, so pleasant to contemplate, remained,
unhappily, or perhaps happily, incapable of being realised.

Put not your trust in princes, nor in any president of Conaistory, for,
as thou perceivest, dear Fichte, there is no help in them! That selfsame
‘poverty’ of thine, which thou sayest can be so ‘clearly proved,’ is, as
matters go, no recommendation to preferment. For the present thou must
continue tó make that thin resource of private teaching serve thee, and |
crush into annihilation all thy prouder aspirations. . Fichte contrives to-
make it serve him for a time; but alas! that also, like every feeble soil
that is much wrought in, runs more and more into barrenness. The ‘ pre-
carious subsistence’ which he had for some. tiime gained in this way

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

went on gradually diminishing, and ultimately failed altogether. ‘In
May 1788 every-prospect had closed around him, and every honourable
means of advancement seemed to be exhausted. The present was utterly
barren, and there was no hope in the future.’

It is the eve of his birthday, in this same month of May. The pensive
fancy figures him walking diseconsolately about the énvirons of Leipsic,
the balmy evening air blowing fresh upon his cheek; birds of various note
warbling softly their May-night vespers, or nestling with placid murmurings
in the fields. He walks, as we said, disconsolately ; pondering with unavail-
ing anxiety all the projects which 1 has entered into his mind to devise,
and finds them all alike hopeless. The world has cast him ont—bis country
has refused him bread; this approaching birthday, for aught he can tell,
may prove tu be his last. Doubtless people have died of starvation—why
not he? Full of bitter thoughts, he returns, as it appear: likely for the
last time, to his solitary and uncheerfil lodging.

Can this be really a leger Tying on the table? Yes, Fichte, even so:
or say rather, a hastily- written note —a note from friend Weisse, the tax-
collector, requesting thee tu step ever to his house without delay. What
can so peremptory a summons signify? It tarns' out that friend Weiss.
is authurised to make him the offer of a tutorship in a private family at
Aurich. Here is fortune returning to shake hands with us after having
resentfully bidden adieu: or call it, if you will, a friendly rope thrown
to us by an unknown Providence, at the very moment when we were in the
extremity of sinking. The sad, disconsolate face brightens up into a joy-
ous smile; the bitterness of despondency is past; warm-hearted thanks
ensue, and confidential explanations. ‘The offer is straight way accepted—the
worthy tax-collector undertaking to advauce the needful for the journey.

Tlow Fichte lived in the interval does not appear; but behold him now

in August setting ont for Switzerland. Flis scanty finances compel him to
travel on foot; but his heart js as light as his purse, and fresh youthful
hopes, mingling with the harvest sunheains, shine brightly on his path.
Disappointment and privation seem left behind him, morose companions of
his foregone pilgrimage; for yonder in Liberty’s own mountain fastnesses,
which Tell has consecrated by the light of bravery and of genius for evcr-
more, he is now to find a welcome and a home. So feels and muses our
incipient philosopher, journeying on foot to that private tutorship at
Burich,
t Thither he arrived on the Ist of September, and was immediately installed
into his office. His duties occupying him the greater part of the day, his
philosophical studies were necessarily laid aside, but he nevertheless found
time for some minor literary pursuits. He preached oceasionally in
Zurich, and at several places in the neighbourhood, as it is said, with very
distinguished acceptance and success. Duriig his residence here he became
acquainted with Lavater and several other literary men; through some of
whom he was introduced to a local notability named Rahn, whose house is
said to have been ‘in a manner the centre of the society of Zurich.’ This
Rahn had married a sister of Klopstock, who, however, was at this time
dead, having left behind her, among other ‘representatives, a rather inte-
resting eldest daughter.

Fichte has already tolerable skill in languages ; but now, for his behoof

'6

rhe

FICHTE : A BIOGRAPITY.

he is about to learn another. He gets to understand the alphabet of
bright eyes, and is shortly qualified to consirue the fine Delectus of a
woman's love. His teacher in this case, as the reader is probably prepared
to hear, was this same ‘interesting eldest daughter’ of collateral-poetical
relatiouship—Johanna Maria Rahn. She seeimg him, and heariug bin
speak oftentimes manfully at her father’s table, cast kind glances on him,
as one worthy of a maiden’s blessing. Her ‘generous pure-inindedness
gave her assurance here of the presence of a man such as in moments of
maidenly meditation she might perchance have fancied she could rather
love than otherwise. Ile, truly, is but a poor tutor, and somewhat proud
withal, with a dash of blunt honesty and impetuosity; very uulike the
‘nice young men’ of ordinary tea-partics, whom, it would seem, the good
Johanua persisted in keepiug at a distance; for we are authentically
informed that she, in her bime, had refused a moderate number of ‘very
excellent offers? Fichte, however, belongs to quite another category.
Accordingly, from glances it gets to smiles and signs of welcome recogni-
tion, and so ouwards to a more perfect understanding. We suspect that
Father Raho did not at first perceive the turn things were taking in his
household; nevertheless, we are prepared to justify Fichte and his fair
beloved before any manner of ivibuual, if needs be, for the decided
fashion iu which they set about lovine each other (being thereto
inwardly necessitated) without leave asked ot aay one. If our Othello
had gone, cap in hand. to the old burgher, and respectfully cx-
plained bis intentions in the beghnming--Fichte being, as we know, a
poor, unprovided tutor, and tis Desdemona the daughter of a Zurich
notability with expectatious—it is highly probable that he would have
been refused, and he must the sby have losi a very admirable wife; as,
on the other hand, the lady herself would have also lost an extremely
desirable husband; which, according to our notions, would have been a
great misfortune for both parties. As it was, however, the affair went on
acrecably, and ultimately prospered. ‘There seems to have been a good
deal of correspondence between them, eves while Fichte remained in
Aurich; which circumstance loads us to suppose that opportunities for
private interview were far from being frequent. As luve-letters, distin-
guished by genuine common sense, warinth of fecling, and the absence of
absurdity, are held to be extremely rare, aud might with certain persons
be matters of curiosity, we regret that lack of space prevents us fom
inserting here some few select passages from these epistles of Fichte to
Johanna. Let readers of sentiment be nevertheless assured that here, in
old Zurich, went on and unfolded itself, in pleasing seyuence and variety,
an actual and beautiful romance; which romance also was destined to be
chequered hy a few unwelcome shades of anxicty and disappointment.

For now, at the end of two years, Fichte’s engagement reaches its termi-
nation. There is consequently a painful, regretful parting, sorrowful pro-
fessions of heart-anguish, earnest and solemn interchange of vows, an
unspeakable immutable attachment on both sides passionately declared;
and so they are separated for a time. For the rest, Fichte’s tutorahip,
besides being distinguishcd by his zealous performance of its duties, had
also been remarkable for a rigorous moral supervision extending to all
parties concerned in it., ‘The parents-of his pupils, although ae per-

CUAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

fectly comprehending his plans, nor approving of that part which they did
comprehend, were nevertheless such admirers of his character, and stood in
such respectful awe of him, that they were induced to submit their own
conduct towards their children to his judgment. In furtherance of his
object, Fichte kept a journal, which he laid before them every week, and in
which he had noted the faults of conduct whereof he conceived them to
have been guilty. Of course such a domestic censorship could not last
long; and that it should have lasted sọ long as it did, has been justly con-
sidered sufficient evidence of the respect Pi which his character was held.
In less than two years, however, it had become irksome, insupportable, and
ended at length in mutual dissatisfaction. Rahn, to whom the attachment
between Fichte and his daughter had been in due time communicated,
endeavoured to obtain for him a superior situation through certain of his
connections in Denmark, but appears to have been unsuccessful in the
attempt: Fichte was therefore thrown once more upon tho world, his
outward prospects as uncertain as when he first entered Switzerland.

Towards the close of March 1790 he left Zurich on his return to his
own country, bearing with him some letters of introduction to persons of
influence at the courts of Weimar and Wirtemberg. As formerly, he per-
formed the greater part of his journey on foot. He reached Stuttgard in
the beginning of April; but not finding his recommendations to the Wirt-
emberg court of much advantage, he shook off the dust from his fect, and
trudged on to Saxony. Visiting Weimar, he expected to see Herder,
Goethe, and Schiller, but here again was disappointed ; Herder was ill, Goethe
in Italy, and Schiller too much engaged with his historical professorship at
Jena to receive visitors. About the middle of May he is once more in
Leipzic, his small stock of money exhausted by the expenses of his
journey. Friend Weisse receives him kindly, but for the rest he meets
with little welcome. The old practice of private teaching is resorted to
-—unhappily with small success. Meanwhile the natural cravings and
unspeakable necessity for bread and cheese get rather pressing. What is
there that an honest incipient philosopher can turn his brains to and live
thereby?

Fichte has long had a secret turn for authorship, and has by him even
now certain miscellaneous essays, which the kind Johanna, with charac-
teristic simplicity, had desired him to publish while at Znrich, and thereby
create a sensation. He, with profounder judgmont, had answered that
such a publication could not have the wonderful effect which she expected—
that same capacity for producing a ‘sensation’ being neither in him nor
his compositions. But now the necd of provender growing paramount, lie
seriously applies himself to literature, that being, as all the world. knows,
a universal refuge for the destitute. He conceived the plan of a monthly
literary journal, ‘the principal objects of which should be to expose the
dangerous tendencies of the prevalent literature of the day; to shew the
mutual influence of cerrect taste and pure morality, and to direct its
readers to the best authors, both of past and present times.’ This pro-
jected undertaking was considered excellent by all to whom it was com-
municated, and eyen admitted to be a decided. requirement of the times,
but was nevertheless held to be liable to one grave objection—he would
never find a publisher. The thing was too much opposed to the interests

8 : ;

FICHTE : A BIOGRAPHY.

of the booksellers to meet with any countenance from them. ‘I have
therefore,’ said Fichte, ‘ out of sorrow, communicated my plan to no book-
seller, and I must now write—not pernicious writings, that I will never
do, but something that is neither good nor bad, in order to earn a little
money. Iam at present engaged upon a tragedy, a business which, of all
possible occupations, least belongs to me, and of wiich I shall certainly
make nothing; and upon novels, small romantic stories, a kind of reading
which is good for nothing but to kill time; this, however, it seems, is what
the booksellers will accept and pay for.’

Fancy Isaac Newton, with the confused clements of a ‘ Principia’ circu-
lating in his, brain, constrained to write installation odes or opera criti-
cisms for the ‘ Morning Post? or fancy, if you will, some impetuons
rhinoceros set to draw water from the well at Carisbrook Castle, in the
place of the celebrated donkey so long accustomed to it; and you will have
some notion of Fichte’s tragical labour of writing tragedies and short
romantic stories, adaptable for purposes of temporicide. It was sufficiently
intolerable while it lasted, and utterly fruitless in results. Moreover, the
difficulty of obtaining regular employment at it put him upon the necessity
of trying other schemes ; his life was one of continual shifts and expedients,
whereby, with his utmost efforts, he could searcely realise the scantiest sub-
sistence. Once he writes: ‘In regard to authorship, I have been able to
do littke or nothing, for I am so distracted and tossed about by constant
schemes and undertakings, that J have had few quiet days.’ Finally, by
way of abandonment of the whole despicable business, he determines that
if ever he becomes an author, it shall be ou his own account ‘ Author-
ship, as a trade,’ says ho, ‘is unfit for me. It is incredible how much
labour it costs me to accomplish something with which, after all, I am but
half satisticd. The more I write, the more difficult does it become. I
per ceive that I want the living fire.’ a

With regard to his other schemes and occupations, we can gather no very
clear account. At one time he gives ‘a lesson in Greek tu a young man
between eleven and twelve o ‘dlock, " and spends the remainder of the day
‘in study and starvation.’ A lady at Weimar had a plan for obtaining him
‘a good situation; but speaking of this, Fichte said: ‘It must certainly
have failed, for I have not heard from her for the last two months,’ Of
other prospects which he had reckoned on as ‘ almost certain,’ he thinks it
at length the best course to ‘ be silent.’ Contemplating his affairs in the
month of August, he says: ‘ Providence cither has something else in store
for me, and hence will give me nothing to do here, as indeed has been the
case; or intends by these troubles to exercise and invigorate me still
farther. I have lost almost everything except my courage.’ Then we
hear of a distant prospect of going to Vienna, to prosécute some new
literary plans, and thus being nearer to Zurich, and even visiting it on his
way. Subsequently he writes: ‘This week seems to be a critical ‘time
with me; every one of my prospects, even the last, has vanished.’ In
respect toa project for engaging him in the ministry, he expresses hiinself
in terms of strong disgust at the ‘ cringing’ and ‘ dissembling’ which would
he required to get him forward, and declares at last, ‘t Í will be no preacher’,
in Saxony.’

Tims Fichte, like Galfiver among the Lilliputians, is painfully nities
b. 72.

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with a complexity of mean embarrassments, and can make no progress. A
strong man, in most ignoble captivity, whose every struggle towards free voli-
tion brings down upon him sharp puny arrows, vexing and irritating him at
every pore. His case is by no means an uncommon one, but his spirit and
deportment under it are far beyond the average manifestations of that kind.
In the midst of destitution, anxiety, and neglect, he approves himself a
man, nowise debasing the faculty within him, sinking neither into syvo-
phancy, pusillanimity, nor stormful indignation against fate. The brave
Fichte! how like a colossal statue he stands uprightly, with his bosom
bared to the weather, majestic and unflinching, with a proud insensibility
to cold and rain, and, when the sun shines out again, looking refreshed and
brighter for the showers. Misery and want press hard upon him, but
engender no envy in his heart; he entertains no hatred, cherishes no
resentment, complains of no neglect. Jie braves his misfortunes as he
can, soliciting neither pity nor admiration, sustaining himself by the
strength of his own integrity. A right healthful self-sufficient man;
patient under evil, trustful in the good; in faithful endeavouring and
endurance manfully holding on his way.

But now, in the winter of 1790, his private teaching operations appear
to have become a trifle more successful; whereby his outward circumstances
were in some degree improved, and his mind left at greater ease and liberty
for engaging in intellectual pursuits. The critical philosophy of Kant was
at this time the subject of much discussion in Germany, and to it Fichte’s
attention was now accidentally directed. The system of deterministic
necessity before alluded to was never in much harmony with his personal
character; and if we are at liberty to regard certain passages of his work
on the ‘Destination of Man’ as the cxpression of his own earlier state of
mind, it would appear that the theory which had satistied his understanding
had long stood in opposition to his feelings. fis introduction to the
writings of Kant produced a complete revolution in his opinions. Many
of his former doubts vanished, and the purpose of man’s life, his faculties
and endowments, acquired a new and nobler significance in his belief.
This event was probably more important, and exercised a greater influence
upon him than any other that occurred in connection with his spiritual
culture. The terms in which he speaks of it sufficiently testify the high `
estimation in which it was regarded by himself. Writing to Jolanna, he
says i—

‘My scheming spirit has now found rest, and I thank Providence that
shortly before all’ my hopes were frustrated, I was placed in a position
which enabled me to bear the disappointment with cheerfulness. A cir-
cumstance, which seemed dependent on mere chance, led me to give myself
up to the study of the Kantean philosoplry—a philosophy that restrains
the imagination (which in my case was always too powerful), gives reason
the ‘daminion, and raises the soul to an elevation above earthly concerns.
Ihave accepted a new and nobler morality; and instead of occupying my-
self with outward things, I am employed more exclusively with my own
being. This- has given me a peace such as I have never before experienced ;
for amid uncertain worldly prospects I have spent my happiest days. I
propose to devote some years of my life to this philosophy; and all that
I write, at least for some time to come, shall have reference to it. It is

10

FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.

difficult beyond conception, and stands greatly in need of simplification. ....
The principles indeed are hard speculations, having no direct bearing on
human life, but their consequences are extremely important to an age
whose morality is corrupted at the very fountain: and to set these conse-
quences before the world in a clear light would, I believe, be doing it good
pervice. ... - I am now thoroughly convinced that the human will is free,
and that to be happy is not the purpose of our being, but rather to deserve
happiness.’

Under the influence of this new inspiration, Fichte addressed himself
once more to literary composition. He commenced an explanatory abridg-
ment of Kant’s ‘ Critical Inquiry into the Faculty of Judgment,’ designed
to further and facilitate the study of the new philosophy, and obviating
somewhat the repulsive terminology in which it was involved. This under
taking, however, he did not complete, and the portion which he wrote was
never published, owing chiefly to the pre-appearance of other similar publi-
cations, which, as he anticipated, had been rapidly vafnped up to profit by the
excitement which the new doctrines had occasioned. In regard to German
literature in general, he believed that its golden age was at hand, dis-
cerning intimations of a promise in Gocthe, Schiller, and others, which
has now in good part been fulfilled. Is: the wondrous revolutions of the
new school, the critical philosophy operated with considerable effect; and
in this department, first by wav of exposition, aud subsequently in further
development and new investigation, Fichte was destined to be distin-
guished.

As yet, however, he is biding his time, and has a variety of fortunes to
undergo in the interim. Early in the year 1791, without any perceptible
improvement in his circumstances, preparations are in progress for his
marriage. The generous Johanna, bethinking her that she was ‘a person
with expectations,’ and duly or unduly considering the applicability ‘of
these to the ordinary requirements of domestic economy, and discerning,
as she believed, no difficulty which faith and a good purpose might not
overcome, resolved within herself that, Michte being willing, they two
should, without further dalliance or delay, try the unspeakable possibilities
of wedlock, and commit the vonsequences to the gracious concern and
kindly interpretation of the Higher Powers. By this arrangement
Fichte would be enabled to pursue his own literary projects peacefully,
free from the immediate necessity of wasting his time and energies in the
distressing struggle for a scanty subsistence from day to day, and with
the ultimate prospect of acquiring some settled provision through his
unimpeded activity in the provinces of philosophy and ietters. Whatever
scruples he might entertain respecting the propriety of marrying without
having first secured an independence for himself, appear to have been over-
ruled. Father Rahn had consented to the alliance; Fichte was of course
eagerly inclined to it; and thus, all obstacles being seemingly removed, he
awaited the event with pleasurable anticipation.

And so at length, as he believes, all his brightest dreams are to ba ful-
filled; his cup is brimming with delight ; the draught of unutterable joy is
sparkling at his lips. Alas for the stability of human expectations! Here
is the hand that is to dash his anticipated pleasures to the ground. The

day of his departure was already fixed, when the bankruptcy of a ia

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

house, to which Rahn had intrusted his property, threw his affairs into dis-
order, threatening even to reduce him to indigence. There was an end to all
plans founded in reference to his prosperity. The shock brought upon the
old man a lingering illness, whereby his life was for.some time endangered ;
but by the unremitting attention and tenderness of his daughter, he was
finally restored to his accustomed state of health. She, with that noble
devotion which bears suffering without a murmur, and merges every element
of self in the generous offices of affection, ministered to the good old
father’s helplessness, cheering and consoling him under the visitations of
calamity, and crushing meanwhile the withered blossoms of her own hopes
into the silent places of her memory.

As for Fichte, he must out again upon the bleak wilderness of life, and
adjust himself to such weather as shall befall. The world, with its diffi-
culties and obstructions, is again before him; but his is the indomitable spirit
which shall rise superior to them all. For the present, he obtained a private
tutorship in the houge of a Polish nobleman at Warsaw; and having
announced the circumstance to Joliauna, bidding her at the same time to be
of courage, and assuring her of his continued faithfulness, he resumed. his
staff, and quitted Leipzic. In the course of the journey he halted at
Rammenau, to pay a visit to his parents. ‘The good, honest, kind father !'
said Fichte, ‘ his look, his tone, his reasoning, how much good they always
dome! Take away all my learning, and make me such a worthy, true, and
faithful man, how much should I gain by the exchange l

On the 7th of Junc he arrived at Warsaw, and immediately waited upon
his employer, a certain Count Von P---—-, a good easy man, though
suffering immoderately from henpeck. Jere, it seems, the gray mare is
the better horse: in other words, the countess leads the orchestra; nay, as
it turns out, is the sole fiddler in the establishment. Fichte finds her music
unpleasantly discordant, and herself, withal, ‘a vain, haughty, and whimsical
woman.’ The elect tutor perceives himself regarded as a mere appendage
tu the supreme petticoats; no respect is paid to the dignity of his pro-
fession; his pronunciation of the French language proves unsatisfactory;
and his German bluntness of demeanour tells not the less to his disad-
vantage. What shall the proud Fichte do but resign his office without
having entered upon its duties; constrain the countess, with some difficulty,
to grant him a slight compensation of travel-money, sufficient for his main-
tenance for the two succeeding months; and with this limited supply once
more journey homewards ? l

First, however, he resolves to visit Konigsberg : there lives the much
renowned Immanuel Kant, the master of the new philosopby; him would
Fichte see visibly in the tesh, and reverently take counsel of. With that
intent he departs from Warsaw on the 25th of June.

On his arrival at Konigsberg, he, with all the ardour of a pilgrim of
knowledge, straightway presents himself to Kant; finds the critical philo-
sopher less enthusiastic than he had supposed; mcets with only a formal
reception; and retires deeply disappointed. Unwilling, however, to aban-
don his purpose, he reflects a little how he may obtain ‘a more free and
earnest interview;’ but for some time does not perceive in what way it can
be effected. At last he determines to write a ‘ Critique of all Revelation,’
with which, as a battering-ram, he will storm the philosophic citadel, and

12 ae

FICHTE! A BIOGRAPHY.

gain, if possible, some ingpection of its wonders. The work is finished by
the 18th of August, and submitted to the transcendentalist for judgment.
The philosopher unbends a little, even praises the performance ; but neither
by it does Fichte attain his object, which, it seems, was the establishment
between himself and Kant of a ‘free scientific confidence.’ In regard to
his many philosophic doubts, he receives little in the way of answer—for
solution of these Kant merely-refers him to the ‘ Critique of Pure Reason :’
is it not all written there, so that whosoever runs, and has a touch of philo-
sophie capacity, may-readl to satisfaction ?

Fichte now meditates publication ; but on revising his production, thinks
it does not fitly express his profoundest thoughts on the subject, and there-
fore he undertakes to remodel it, and give it some further graces of compo-
sition. But here once more arises a grave difficulty. He, like here and
there a Chancellor of Exchequer, as well as many a private person, is in a
dilemma of ways and means. Counting his meagre stock of money, and
distributing it prospectively over such . of tim with utmost
attenuation it is capable of covering, he finds that it will not last him
beyond a fortnight. Whereupon come no small perplexity and serious
questionings as to what is to be done. Tle strives to obtain some employ-
ment through certain of Kant’s friends to whom he had been introduced ;
Lut the friends are wanting either in influence or zeal: nothing can Fichte
get todo. Alone, and iu a strange country, what shall he resolve upon ?
lt occurs to him that the great transcendentalist is doubtless a man of
kindly and enlarged sympathies ; for does not greatness of intellect always
imply abundant generosity? He writes a manly, noble letter to Kant,
highly characteristic of himself, a. 1 therein reveals to him the nakedness
of his circumstances, discloses somewhat of his personal history, and, with
delicate frankness, requests the loan of a small sum of money to defray the
expenses of his journey to the humble roof yet open to him in Fatherland.
Yor security and guarantee of subsequent repayment, Fichte offers all he
has to give in such a case—lis honour and integrity asa man. He feels
the singularity of the pledge, and admits its inadmissibility as an ordinary
bond. ‘1 know no one,’ says he, ‘except yourself, to whom I could offer
this security without fear of being laughed at to my face.’ However, he
nroceeds: ‘It is my maxim never to ask anything from another without
having first of all examined whether I myself, were the circumstances’
inverted, would do the same thing for some one else. In the present case J
have found that, supposing I had it in my power, I would do this for any
person whom I believed to be animated by the principles by which I know
that I myself am now governed.’ It is not without a sense of humiliation,
that the proud noble heart of the man is thus reduced to mortgage its
sincerity. ‘I am so convinced,’ he continues, ‘of a certain sacrifice of
honour in thus placing it in pledge, that the very necessity of giving you
this assurance seems to deprive me of a part of it myself..... So Jar,
however, I can rély upon my principles, that were I capable of forfeiting |
my word pledged to you, I should despise myself for ever aftcrwards, and
could never again venture to cast a glance into my own soul—principles `
which constantly reminded me of you, and of my own dishonour, must-
need be cast aside altogether, in order to free me from this most painful
self-xeproach.’ “For the tone of mental independence and manly, self-

U

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

respect which predominates in the letter, Fichte, solicits no pardon: he
even declares that he cannot ask it, alleging that ‘it is one of the distinctions
of sages, that he who speaks to them speaks as aman to men.’ The letter
being written and transmitted, he awaits the issue with composure. This
memorable day was the 2d of September 1791.

Next morning there comes from Kant an invitation to dinner. Ile
receives his needy visitor with his usual cordiality. A magnanimous reader
anticipates that now, of a surety, Fichte’s pressing necessities will be suit-
ably provided for. Alas, no! A critical philosopher is in no condition to
lend money; for indeed, however celebrated, transcendentalism brings but
little grist to the household mill. Philosophy is profitable for much, but
for want of its long-sought, and as yet undiscoverable stone, cannot coin
dollars. The intangible idea of dollars is all that philosophy can take note
of; and as Kant said on another occasion, and in reference to quite another
question, ‘there is considerable difference between thinking we possess a
hundred dollars, and really possessing them!’’ Hegels declaration, that
‘philosophy does not concern itself with such things as a hundred dollars,’
though no sufficient answer to Kant’s remark, is nevertheless, in an vn-
transcendental sense, very obviously trne. Kant, as we said, cannot lend
money, at least he is in no possibility of doing so for the next fortnight—
then perhaps he may. Meanwhile Fichte shall be welcomé to occasional
pot-luck. `

In his own hired attic, however, things are getting daily more cheerless;
the image of grim Scarcity sits before him iu his lonely room all day long ;
the autumn evenings are growing chill, and on his hearth are only the
ashes of extinguished fires. The spirit of despondency overshadows him,
and his hrave heart is sick from hope so long deferred. Visions of the
parental fireside, and its cheerful evening faces, far away in nativeland,
visit him at intervals, making him to feel, by contrast, more keenly the
hardships of his lot. Neither is the image of his fair Johanna Rahn ever
absent from him long; but as a screne angel of consolation shines beckon-
ing in the distance, and does at least partially illuminate his melancholy
thoughts. Nevertheless the present time is pressing; Fichte has fallen
into painful extremity. But why not sell the manuscript of that ‘ Critique
of all Revelation?’ Kant says it is admirably written, and does not need to
be reconstructed. ‘Truly, nothing shall hinder, provided one can get a
publisher. Kant recommends him to offer it to Hartung, a Konigsberg
bookseller of some distinction; but unhappily the worthy Hartung is
from home. With him, therefore, at present, there is no dealing. Fichte
tries to dispose of the work elsewhere, but utterly without success ; no
publisher to whom he applies is disposed to undertake any article of that
description. On the 12th of September Fichte writes down this passage
in his journal :— I wanted to work to-day, but could do nothing. How
will this end? What will become of me a week henee? Then all my
money will be gone.’ l

The darkness is gathering thick around Fichte’s prospects—no star is
visible in, the whole heaven of his observation. Fichte, however, is not to
die of destitution. Fortune has tried him hardly; and now, if no star, she
reveals at least a comfortable show of candlelight. An invitation reaches
him, through court-preacher Schulz, to repair into the neighbourhood of

lé ;

FICHTE : A BIOGRAPHY.

Dantzic; there, in the family of the Count of Krokow, a tutorship awaits
hin. Tutorships are Fichte’s abomination, and his views were now
directed to a life of literary exertion ; nevertheless, as necessity consults
no man’s convenience, he accepts the proposal. Whence he obtained
money for the journey does not appear; but ai anyrate the journey
is performed. Fichte meets with the most friendly reception; and
cntermg on his new employment, expcriences the kindest attentions
therein. This countess proves herself from the first a woman of
‘amiable character and excellent abilities,’ and she renders Fichte’s °
residence in her family ‘not only happy, but interesting and instruc-
tive. The kindly Countess Krokow! blessings on her fair, noble head,
though, alas! that is long since laid at rest!

This fortunate appointment was the beginning of many years of unin-
terrupted prosperity. Very shorily, through the agency of his friends at
Konigsberg, Fichte is enabled to make arrangements with Hartung for
publishing the ‘ Critique of all Revelation. The terms are settled, and
the process of type-setting is going on. But who is this solemn incarna-
tion of pomposity, stopping the printing-presscs at Halle, and voviferously
announcing the discovery of a cloven foot? This is the dean of the
Theological Faculty, who refuses his sanction to the publication, on
account of certain principles contained in the Look, which he, in his
straitlacedness, conceives to be unorthodox. Fichte has to urge that his
hook is not theological, but philosophical, and therefore does not properly
come under the cognisance of the Theological Faculty; but this plea is
held to be irrelevant. Friends advise him te withdraw the obnoxious
passages ; but Fichte is inflexible- having written nothing which he does not
solemnly believe, and can give some show of reason for, he is determined
that the book shall be printed entire, or printed uot at all. Kant is con-
sulted on the subject, as a man whose judgment i» of the highest authority
in such matters; and Kant confirms the soundness of the priuciples in dis-
pute. Abiding by his position, Fichte has tu wait awhile and seo what
may become of it. As it chances, he has not to wait long; the difficulty
is happily got rid of by a change i in*the censorship. The new dean, not
partaking in the scruples of his predecessor, gave his consent to the
publication, and the werk accordingly appeared in the spring of 1792.

A new era now opens upon Fichte. All journals devoted to the criti-
cal philosophy are loud in their praises of his work. Would a curious
reading public know wherefore, let them take note of this one circumstance:
Certain editors of ability have got an impression that this is a new book
by Kant, which he, for reasons of his own, chooses to publish anonymously.
What, therefore, is so becoming for all able editors and indiscriminating
sucklings of the Critical Philosophy, as to chant a stave, according to
ability, in honour of the great master? The book was not of a nature to
force itself immediately into notice, and it probably owes not a little of ite
first success to this mistake respecting its: paternity. Kant, however, -
publicly disclaims the authorship, and discloses the name of the writer.
Fichte, as it turns out, can bear to stand on his own bakis; and the sounder
heads among his countrymen soon fail not to welsome him as one of the
profoundest of German thinkers.

Any analysis or adequate description of this remarkable book iar be

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

attempted here. Such an account of it as we could render by a brief
allusion to its primviples would almost certainly create a false impression
of its purpose. Whoever would know it as Fichte designed it to be
known, let him bring with him a clear head, a mind open to conviction, and.a
resolution strong enough toabide by the truth when he has learned it. Let
us take, however, one sentence from the preface, and mark in what spirit
Fichte approaches the inquiry: ‘To truth, says he, ‘I solemnly devote
myself, at my first entrance into public life. Without respect of party or
of reputation, I shall always acknowledge that to be truth which I recognise
as such, come whence it may; and never acknowledge that which I do not
believe. It may be of little importance to the world to receive this
assurance, but it is of nnportance to me to call upon it to bear witness .o
this my solemn vow.’ A noble vow, nobly fulfilled, and one which the
humblest of the sons of Adam might enjoin upon himself, and abide by to
advantage. :

Glancing back a little, we now perceive with satisfaction that the pro-
spective father-in-law’s affairs have got somewhat righted. Fichte is
already: a rising man, so the time has come when he may safely wed.
Accordingly, in March 1798, he writes to the fair Johanna that he shall be
with her in June, or at latest in July, with a view to that agreeable con-
summation. Ile contemplates the event with deepest pleasure, but also
with much solemnity of fecling. An overflowing thankfulness fills his
heart; the magnitude of the happiness which awaits him seems too great
for his unworthiness. The strong, stern soul of the thinker, with its rock-
like stability and yarnestness, touched by affection’s gentle rod, gushes out
in streams of tenderness. ‘Then there are kindly leave-takings, halt-sorrow-
ful, with his worthy friends at Dantzic, ‘who are unwilling to let him go;'
plans and preparations for the future; above all, a visit to his well-
beloved parents, and his ‘seven sisters,’ who have heard somewhat of his
honours in authorship, and now give him their blessing and approval of
the course on which he is about to enter. Fichte, doubtless, tells them
something of his wanderings and endurances, and how a benignant Provi-
dence had helped him in his extremity; nor, amidst his many wondrous
relations, can that grand interview with Kant fail to be spoken of. : There,
in the old Lusatian home, they are gathered, speaking and listening by
turns, happy as this world can make them; and as they speak and listen,
the proud old father’s eyes are glistening with tears. The patient mother,
too, feels well rewarded for all her care and many anxieties for this noble
son; and the assiduous sisters are bountiful of all kindly ministrations.
Far into the night they sit, parting at length with sad, yet happy faces,
aud silent prayers for mutual welfare.

Early in the month of June he takes his leave of them, and journeys to
the bride-home in the land of mountains. On the 16th he is drawing nigh
to the very spot. Pleasantly glance the rays of the summer sun about
the old walls of Zurich ; there, in her father’s house, is the long-beloved,
waiting with expectation to become. his wife. The echo of his footsteps
through the rather silent summer streets is unheard by him, for before him
fs the bride-father’s house; and his entrance there is one of pleasant
greetings.

But what means this new vexation coming upon us unexpectedly, and

16

FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.

positively putting off the marriage? It arises simply out of certain ‘laws of
the state affecting foreigners,’ which happily will only occasion a few months’
delay. On the 22d: of October the marriage takes place, and Fichte is
away with the bride to enjoy a short ‘tour in Switzerland.’ Returning
home, he takes up his residence in the good father-in-law’s house > here in
friendly Zurich, with the distant mountains frowning down on him with a
grand benignity, he will rest for a time, and gain a livelihood by his pen.
For several months he enjoyed ‘a life of undisturbed repose,’ sweetendd
by the society of her whose love had been his stay in times of adversity,
and now gave a holier living purpose to the prosperous hour.

In the peaceful Swiss canton all is yet happiness and security ; but the
rest of Europe is shaken with a new-born terror; and tidings are abroad
of that grand convulsion called the French Revolution. Old Feudal
Europe, with its obsolete usages, and establishments of ancient power
grown intolerable, has fallen into distraction aud decadence. Folly and
oppression have ruled it long, but now has come the dawn of a world's
deliverance. France has spoken forth a word of terrific prophecy, which
the assembled nations have quailed to hear, though all have long been
struggling to utter it; everywhere is promise and expectancy; the new-
born giant of democracy is chanting loud his daring hymns to freedom;
the genius of humanity, so long discomfited and trodden down, has mounted
a pinnacle of unheard-of glory, whence, as from a throne, she shall dis- ,
pense the bountics of a golden age. Alas! these prospects are all delusive,
and the struggle proves no deliverance, but ouly a bewildered agony and
madness—a convulsive irregular tumult of unconsecrated indignation; like
the mournful catastrophe of a blind Sanison's strength, when he threw down
the pavilion of the Philistines, and buricd himself and his oppressors in
the ruins. T

Yet, doubt it not, the French Revolution had a meaning in it of grent
significance, which is going on even now unto fulfilment. Read it truly, it
is, as one has said, a reproclamation, as amidst ‘infernal splendours,' of the
everlasting majesty of Justice, whose divine right of government had been
foully overthrown. Whosoever will look may perceive that the old feudal
incarnation of humanity is abolished and dead, and men are now burying
its remains: the new development towards which we are progressing is
the dominion and supremacy of Industry, which, however, is not likely to
be founded without difliculiy. Nevertheless, courage to brave hearts!
What is dead need not be lamented; .in the conflict of principles and
institutions the new spirit proves ever triumphant; for humanity is as a
phoenix, irom the ashes of whose despair springs a nobler birth of hope.

Fichte, looking on at this revolutionary procedure from his Swiss retire-
ment, conceived that there was much misunderstanding respecting it, and
accordingly wrote and published his ‘Contributions to the-Correction of
Public Opinion’ thereupon. Instead of execrating cr enlogising the evo-
lution, Fichte adopts a far preferable course, and endeavours to understand
it, which, indeed, was strictly his business as a philosopher. And this is
the leading principle of his work :— That there is, and can he, no abso-
lutely unchangeable political constitution, because noho absolutely perfect,
can be realised ; the relatively best constitution must therefore carry within’

itself the principle of change and improvement. And if it be sakod from..
* P ' f

CHAMBERS'’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

whom this improvement should proceed, it is replied that all partics to the
political contract ought equally to possess this right. And by this political
contract is to be understood, not any actual and recorded agreemént—for
both the old and the new opponents of this view think they can destroy it
at once by the easy remark, that we have no historical proof of the exist-
ence of. such a contract—but the abstract idea of a state, which, as the
peculiar foundation of all rights, should lie at the bottom of every political
fabric.’ This book subjected Fichte to the charge of being a democrat,
which, however, in the popular English sense of the term, he really never
was, as from his work on the ‘ Principles of Natural Law’ may sufficiently
be seen.

These political speculations, however, were not the most important unon
which Fichte was engaged during the period of his residence in Zurich.
We are told of ‘several powerful and searching criticisms ’ which appewed
in a leading philosophical journal, and in which discerning cyes had dis-
covered the hand that wrote the ‘ Critique of Nevelation.’ Furthermore,
at the instigation of venerable Parson Lavater, he prepared a short course
of lectures, a sort of critical philosophy made easy, by means whereof,
since the fame of Kants achievement had reached Switzerland, the
worthy pastor proposed to indoctrinate his friends, that they, as well as
others, might be enabled to discuss the same whenever thrown into
philosophical society. It need not surprise us, that ‘this excellent
man retained the warmest feelings of friendship towards the philo-
sopher,’ inasmuch as Fichte was right worthy of anybody’s friendship, be
he who he migit. For the rest, it seems Fichte lived in close retirement ;
the manners of the Zurich burghers not pleasiug him, he ‘seldom went out
into society.” His own wife, his father-in-law, the nnexceptiunable
Lavater, and certain Indefinite people, described as ‘a few others,’ made
up the circle of his acquaintance. He had considerable correspondence,
however, with several distinguished persons, amongst whom prominently
appears Reinhold, then professor of philosophy at Jena, and recognised
lcading Kantist of the day-—known also for certain fanciful modifica-
tions of the original doctrine, and by him called ‘ philosophy without
nickname.’

But apart from these secondary occupations, Fichte was to some extent
engaged in planning the philosophical system upon which his reputation
mainly rests, Further meditation has convinced him that even the sage of
Konigsberg is not infallible ; and that indeed much remains to be done before
the cycle of philosophy is complete. In this very month of October 1793,
whether before marriage or afterwards the present writer knoweth not, he
writes to a friend thus : significantly :—My conviction is that Kant has only
éndicated the truth, but neither unfolded nor proved it.’ Subsequently he
announces: ‘F have discovered a new principle, from which all philosophy
can be easily deduced ;’ and he even has the audacity to prophesy that ‘in
a couple of years we shall have a system distinguished by all the clearness
of geometrical evidence.’ Fichte of course is to produce it, and is even
now devoting all the energies of his intellect to that end. His intellect is
of the subtlest, and he works in his vocation with the zealous energy of
one who loves the truth with undivided earnestness; but alas for the pro-
mised philosophy with the clearness of geometric evidence—that, we

. 18

s FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY,

believe, is still waited for, and perhaps need scarcely be expected before
doomsday—rather late in the evening !

However, Fichte for the present believes otherwise, and, so believing,
will intrepidly pursue his speculations, and sec what may become of, them.
He is invited to undertake the education of the Prince of Mecklenburg-
Strelitz, a tutorship with good appointments and prospects of court
patronage, all of which Fichte firmly and modestly declines. ‘I desire
nothing,’ says he, ‘but leisure to execute my plan—then fortune may do
with me what it will.’ Here is a man, evidently, who will not compromise
philosophy for pudding. Nevertheless his studies are interruptal. Without
solicitation of his, he is appointed Professor Supernumerarius of Philosophy
at the university of Jena, in room of friend Reinhold, who, it seems, has
removed to Kiel, there to edify a new set of students by that fanciful
‘philosophy without nickname.’ Court tutorships may be declined
without compunction, but not a professorship of philosophy; Fichte
accordingly accepts it, on coudition that he shall be allowed tu devote the
greater portion of the first. year to study.

The university of Jena was at this time the most distinguished university
in Germany. Its contiguity to the court at Weimar connected it with the
highest literary names of the age. The Grand Duke Charles Augustus,
having an eye and reverence for talent, had adorned his little Saxon court
by the presence cf such men as Wieland, Herder, Goethe, and Schiller,
and, as one might reasonably suppose, found them very iclerable company.
Indced the intellectnal brilliancy of the Weimar circle seems to have had in
modern times no parallel elsewhere; so that it might stand in quite envious
comparison with the courts of many a larger state, some of which can boast
of nothing higher than an occasional ‘apothesis of a Beau Brummel.’ To
this brilliant and busy scene was Fichte transiated from his Swiss retire-
ment —to the society of the greatest living men—to the office of instructor
to a thronging crowd of students ‘trom all surrounding nations.’ :

Mark, however, the supremacy of venius, and how a man possessed of
that does not fail to acquit himself right nobly. His already considerable
reputation, and the bold originality of his philosophic system, as displayed
in the published programme of his lectures, had raised the public expec-
tation to the utmost; so that his position was one of no little difficulty,
inasmuch as he might possibly prove unequal to what had been expected.
of him. Arrived at Jena on the 18th of May 1794, he was received with
great kindness by his colleagues atthe university. On the 23d he
delivered his first lecture—to an audience so numerous, that the largest
hall in Jena, although crowded to the roof, proved insufficient to contain
all who had assembled. The impression which he made even exceeded all
prior expectation. His singular and commanding address, his fervid,
impetuous eloquence, the profoundness and rich profusion of his thoughts,
poured forth in the most convincmg sequence, and, fashioned with a
wondrous precision, astonished and delighted his hearers. The rugged,
earnest force of his uncommon character, strengthened by long silence,
and perfected by inward struggle, burst forth with the first occasion in a
grandeur of originality not to be otherwise attained; resombling that vol-
canic vehemence which, from the central depths of the earth, darts upwards

through barriers of perennial ice, and flames forth aloft an object of asto-
9

CIIAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

nishment. Fichte’s first appearance in his new capacity was quite
triumphant: we are told that ‘he left the hall the most popular professor
‘of the greatest university of Germany.’

Of that astonishing popularity we do not account much; happily for
himself, Fichte also knew what estimate to put upon it. Not for popu-
larity, or breath of vain applause did he live; but that out of the unshaped
possibilities of his life, he might build up a pillar of completed duty. What
else, indeed, does every true man live for, if not for this? What elsc,
except this, is all men’s mission and prescribed destiny in this fluctuating
life of time

Fichte’s residence at Jena was nowise distinguished for its peacefulness.
German students are proverbially obstreperous. Then, as now, they were
united in certain irregular orders or unions, known by the name of Lands-
mannschaften, their proceedings being marked by great turbulence and
licence. Jn Fichte’s time, riots of the most violent description were of
common occurrence; houses were broken into and robbed, either by way
of a pleasant excitement, or for the purpose of obtaining means of sensual
indulgence. Legal authority was impotent to restrain these excesses; so
bold indeed had the unionists become, that on one occasion, when the house
of a professor had been ransacked, five hundred students openly demanded
from the duke an amnestv for the offence. It scems to have been con-
sidered a highly commendable and interesting achievement to plunder a
professor. The academical authorities had made frequent efforts to suppress
these sovieties; but on such occasions the students uniformly broke out
into more frightful irregularities. For, indeed, is not ‘ Liberty for ever’
the undeniable right of men and students? Whosoever, therefore, would
restrain established Burschen privileges, immemorial rights of ‘academical
freedom,’ let him lovk out for broken windows, and deem himself happy it
he can hide his wine!

But now, cannot an indomitable Fichte, with his manifest strength of
character, do something in the way of reforming this unpleasant state of
things? Most willingly wonld he do it; but the question is, how can it be
done? Try logic. German students have a certain share of understanding,
and perhaps they possess some kind of succedancum for conscience—who
knows? Qn this flattering hypothesis, Fichte commences a course of
public lectures on * Academical Morality ;’ in which procceding he appears
to prosper almost beyond his hopes. These lectures, and his own personal
influence among the students, are attended with the happiest effects. The
three orders then existing at Jena are smitten with penitence ; and express
their willingness to dissolve their union, on condition that the past should
be forgotten. To Fichte they delivered over the books and papers of their :
society, for the purpose of being destroyed as soon as he can make their
peace with the court at Weimar, and receive commission to administer to
them the ‘oath of renunciation,’ which, however, they will receive from
no one but himself. Fichte seems to have accomplished, by the sole force
of his individual character, what the university authorities, armed with the
rigour of the law and implements of punishment, had been unable to effect.

And yet it would seem that every reformation can be only partial. A
very Luther, with his strong ‘ battle-voice,’ and‘ defiant, lifelong warfare
sam principalities and powers, cannot make a whole Europe Protestant.

FICHTE : A BIOGRAPHY.

So too it happens with the reformer Fichte. That expected commission
from Weimar is somewhat tardy in arriving. It is even whispered that
the university authorities, jealous of the success of an individual professor,
who had done by himself what they could not do in their collective
capacity, are enviously raising obstacles. Whereupon arise suspicions,
stupid rumours of all sorts, and dissatisfaction on account of the delay ;
and, by way of practical consequence, one of the three orders withdraws
from the engagement, turning with great virulence against Fichte, as a
man suspected of deceiving thein.

The success, as we said, is only partial. Still, two orders gained over is
some encouragement. Were it not well, therefore, to put on an extra
pressure of logic, with a view to reduce likewise the rebellious third ?
Fichte accordingly determines to deliver, during the winter session of 1794,
another course of lectures, ‘calculated to arouse and sustain a spirit of
honour and motality among the students.” To accomplish his purpose
thoroughly, it was necessary that these lectures should take place at a time
not devoted to any other course, so that he might assemble an audience
from among all the several classes. Dut every hour frum eight o’clock in
the morning till seven in the evening, of every six days in the week, was
already occupied by other lectures. No way seemed open to him but to
deliver these moral discourses on the Sunday. Before adopting this plan,
however, he made diligent inquiry whether any law, cither of the state or
the university, forbade such a proceeding. Discovering no such prohibi-
tion, he examined into the practice of other universities, and found many
precedents to justify Sunday lectures. Finally, he asked the opinion of some
of the oldest professors, none of whom saw any objection to his proposal,
provided he did not encroach upon the time set apart for divine service.
' 1f plays are permitted on Sundays,’ said Schiitz, ‘why not moral lectures ?”
Fichte, therefore, fixed upon nine in the morning as the hour, and commenced
his course under favourable prospects. A large concourse of students from
all the different classes attended, together with several of the professors,
who willingly acknowledged that they derived great benefit from the dis-
courses.

Fichte believes himself to be in the way of duty. Nevertheless ‘the
best-laid schemes of mice and men,’ not to say professors, ‘ gang aft agley;’
and Fichte finds that the worthiest intentions, and conduct the most pru-
dent, are no protection against calumny. A political print, of the anony-
mous slanderous description, ‘distinguished by crawling sycophancy towards
power,’ directs its wondrous sagacity to the consideration of this phenome-
non, aud traces a very intimate connection between the Sunday lectures
and the French Revolution! If a discerning public will believe this anony-
mous slanderous publication, here is a ‘formal attempt to overturn the
established religious services of Christianity, and to erect the worship of
Reason in their stead!’ A stupid, undiscerning public to some eatent
believes it, and the Consistory of Jena conceive it to be their duty to
forward a complaint on the subject to the High Consistory at Weimar.
Finally, an assembly.Jodges an accusation before the duke and privy
council against Professor Fichte, for ‘a deliberate attempt to overthrow the
public religious services of the country.’ Inquiry is thereupon directed to
be made; meantime let Professor Tichte suspend his lectures. .

CHAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

Fichte suspends, but will in the interim take occasion to defend himself.
The best way of doing so is to give a ‘simple narrative of the real facts,’
and to make government acquainted with his projects for the moral improve-
ment of the students. This done, the charge is effectually demolished.
The duke forthwith gives judgment, ‘ dated 25th January 1795,’ whereby
Fichte ‘is freely acquitted of the utterly-groundless suspicion which had
been attached to him;’ his wisdom and prudence are mentioned with
approbation; and he receives assurances of the ‘continued goed opinion’
of the prince. The Sunday lectures, accordingly, are resumed, avoiding, as
heretofore, the hours of divine service.

Meanwhile, that outstanding third union, or Belial - fraternity, proves
utterly invincible by logic, and its outrageous proceedings are beginning to
render Fichte’s residence at Jena not only uncomfortable, but even danger-
ous. The good wife Johanna has been several times insulted on the
public streets ; his own person is not always safe; and bis property has
been subjected to repeated outrages. Obviously the town of Jena is in great
want of new police. In lack of such desirable force, Fichte is constrained
to apply to the senate of the university for protection. The senate declares
it can de nothing more than authorise self-defence, in case of necessity;
except remind him that he has brought his ditticultics upon himself, by
bringing the conduct of the orders under the notice of the state, without
the sonatorial sanction. lf more protection than the academy can afford
him be desirable, Fichte is at liberty to apply to his friends at court. Such
is the position of affairs till towards the close of the winter session. ‘Then
we have a crisis. In the middle of the night (date unknown) a party of
the Belial-fraternity made an attack upon Fichte’s house, perpetrated con-
siderable damage, and caused much alarm, the worthy father-in-law, who
it seems was now living with our professor, narrowly escaping with his
life. It appears high time for the houschold to be moving. Accord-
ingly Fichte applied to the duke for permission to leave Jena, which
being granted, he took up his residence at Osmanstadt, a village abont
two miles from Weimar.

About this time, if we mistake not, Fichte completed his speculations
which were begun at Zurirh, and published them under the title of ‘ Wis-
senschaftslehre,’ which, being interpreted into our vernacular, siguitics
‘ Doctrine of Science.’ This is the scientific development of his philoso-
phical system —the systematic co-ordination of those ‘ materials for a
science,’ which he conceived Kant tu have discovered but not developed.
In this he endeavoured to construct à priori the whole system of human
knowledge upon the original basis of consciousness; as from the funda-
mental principles here cvolved, he designed to construct a complete system
of morals.

lt has been said that the peculiarities of Fichte’s philosophy are so inti-
mately bound up with the personal character of its author, that both lose
something of their completeness when considered apart from the other.
So far, at least, as ideal and actual may approximate, the one is the idea
whereof the’ othcr is the visible realisation. The two mutually illustrate
each other. Nevertheless, to attempt any sufficient exposition of the
system in this place would be futile. “It were easy to bewilder uninitiated

readers with the transcendental phraseology but what profit? The
22

FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.

thing solely essential in the case were to make it understood. But Fichte
is not to be understood without much sedulous and patient stndv. His is
nowise what the Germans call a ‘parlour-fire philosophy; but a rugged
obstinate element, which one must contend with lustily before it will yield
us any result. Whoever has courage and opportunity for such an‘ enter-
prise will probably find himsel? ultimately rewarded for the pains be-
stowed upon it; whatever may be his conclusions as to the value or truth
of the opinions he will here encounter, a due consideration of them wil] of
itself be an admirable discipline of his understanding.

Iere, however, it is curious to observe how any new system, or im-
portant modification of an old onc, is uniformly met with’ outcry and dis-
trust. Let aman, or any number of men, he settled down into any given
habitude, either of thought or of mere material arrangement, and how
difficult and unpleasant it is to move out of it. Tt has often occurred to us
that our numerous railways must have many times proved marvellous
annoyances in this respect. Fancy a retired burgher, who has built for
himself a quiet snuggery, a little way out of town, all precisely accordant
with his own notions of a private residence, thinking to dwell there unmo-
Jested for the rest of his lifetime. Lo, suddenly, some cosy afternoon,
when he is perhaps congratulating himself on the quietude of his retreat,
he receives the astounding intimation, that it is proposed to carry the
Donner and Blitz Railway slap through his drawing-room! Here is a
touch of unexpected electricity for him! What does he do hut straightway
begin to anathematise the project, and predict all manner of evil concern-
ing it? Just so is it with that whole class of thinker: who have com-
placently settled all that appertains to man and the universe according to
some quict life-theory of their owr. That there should be anything in
heaven or carth not ‘dreamt of in teir philosophy’ is what they cannot be
prevailed upon to admit. Many. at this period were the self-satisfied retired
thinkers, inhabiting suburban boxes in the vicinity of the capital city of
Transcendentalism. JIow very uncomfortable now to be dispossessed, with
no better prospect for some time to come than that of furnished lodgings !
Really it is difficult for any retired individual, man of business or philoso-
pher, to reconcile himself to so unpleasant a predicament. Accordingly,
onc need not wonder greatly at the many attacks which the Wissenschalts-
Ichre sustained from some of the philosophical journals of the day. To
these for some time Fichte paid little or no regard; but becoming at length
more frequent and importunate, he was in a manner constrained tu reply
to them. He did this in a very decided fashion. ‘Take, for instance, a
glance at the measure dealt out to a certain Herr Schmidt, a very stolid
and troublesome antagonist. ‘My philosophy,’ says Fichte, ‘is nothing to
Herr Schmidt from incapacity ; his is nothing to me from insight. Fron
this time forth I look upon all that Herr Schmidt may say, either directly
or indirectly about my philosophy, as something which, so far as [ am
concerned, has no meaning, and upon Herr Schmidt himself as a philoso-
pher who, in relation to me, is non-existent.’ Here at anyrate is no lack
of emphasis, whatever one may think abont courtesy. A perfectly fair
mind might regret the tone of contemptuousness and asperity here and else-
where observable in Fichte’s treatment of his opponents; nevertheless, in
judging of it, it were well to consider the specific circumstances under

l 23

CUAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

which it was adopted. He himself was never the assailant, but desired
if possible to avoid controversy, and entered into it only when he seemed
impelled by persecution and abuse. Besides, he always professed himself
to contend, not for distinction, but for truth. ‘With him to whom truth
is not above all other things '~~said he, ‘above his own petty personality—
the Wissenschaftslehre can have nothing to do.’ And again: ‘It fills me
with scorn which I cannot describe, when | look on the present want of
any truthfulness of vision, on the deep darkness, entauglement, and per-
version, which now prevail.’ He admits that he had not handled Herr-
Schmidt very tenderly ; but says that every just person, knowing many
things that were uot before the public, would give him credit for the
‘mildness of an angel.’ Fichte complains of nothing morc distinctly than
that his system was misapprehended; that his opponents would not take the
trouble to understand it, or admit their inability if they could not : above
all, that they would not refrain from pronouncing against it, even when
they Anew that it was not understood by them. Nothing more natural
than that he should consider such conduct foolish and unreasonable, and
treat it accordingly. ‘It is surely to be expected,’ said he, ‘from every
scholar—not that he should understand everything—bhut that he should at
Jeast know whether he dovs understand it or not; and of every honest
man, that he should not pass judgment on anything before he is conscious
of understanding it.’

While, however, the Wissenschaftslehre was indifferently received, and
indifferently comprehended by many of his philosophic brethren, it was
not without success in other quarters. Men of genius, not su exclusively
devoted to metaphysical speculation, accepted it with mach avidity and
welcome, as considerably the most serviceable philosophy they had met
with. Foremost amongst these, as foremost among all German men, was
the poet Goethe. Knowing Fichte well, and entertaining a high opinion of
his character and ability, he requested that the work might be sent to him,
sheet by sheet, as it went through the press; and he after wards acknow-
ledged that the study of it had been of essential service to his culture.

The disturbances which had driven Fichte out of residence at Jena
gradually subsiding, his academical life went on for some time unmolested,
and he appears to have devoted himself assiduously to literary exertion.
Ilis contributions to the ‘ Philosophical Journal,’ of which he became joint-
editor with his friend Niethammer, in 1795, forin an important part of his
works, and are directed chiefly to the further scientific development of his
system. In 1796 appeared his ‘ Doctrine of Law,’ and in 1798 his ‘ Doc-
trine of Morals,’ wherein the fundamental principles of the Wissenschafts-
Iehre are applied to practical departments of knowledge.

Meanwhile two events had transpired in connection with his domestic
relations: the death of the good father-in-law in September 1795, and
subsequently the birth of a son, who, we believe, is at this present writ-
ing a professor of philosophy in the university of Tubingen. Fichte’s
household life throughout appears to have been distinguished by peaceful
simplicity and general uniformity of happiness, varied only by such solici-
tudes and trivial infelicities as are understood to chequer the most favour-
able matrimonial alliances.

Now, however, diligent literary exertion, domestic comfort, academical
24

FICHTE: A BIOGRAPIY.

reputation, aud even the future pruspects of his life, are about to be blasted
by an unexpected blow. Fichte, who has already suffered much, must
adjust himself to a greater calamity than has hitherto befallen hia. He
may nerve his strong heart, and shield him well in his integrity, for the
powers of malice and stupidity are coming down upon him from the high
places, to lay waste the little garden of his peace! ‘his man, whose life
has been a continual adoration of the Infinite, to whom the immeasurable
uuiverse has been but as a vast and solemn temple, wherein his earnest
spirit has mused and worshipped; whose hervic sentiments and lofty con-
templations tend pre-eminently to inculeate and exalt a faith in the God-
like, and to make it manifest in the consciences and visible activities of
men -this man of steadfast virtue, and of humble, trustful piety, is now to
stand publicly accused of atheism !

This is a charge which has been oftentimes preferred against philoso-
phers, whose speculations, from their novelty and the imperfections of
language, have on their first announcement been generally misunderstood.
The popular mind in all ages has been apt to miscoustrue the discoveries
and further developments of truth, which new and greater intellects
occasionally reveal, into a profane interference with established opinions.
It is ever the lot of the man who outstrips his contefaporaries in spi-
ritual discernment, to be first misinterpreted, and then denounced. The
catalogue of noble names who have thus suffered would be comparatively
endless. Accusations of atheism and infidelity swell everywhere the re-
cords of history and of literature; a reader of any compass of comprehen-
sion comes gradually to regard them as only sorrowful instances of that
mental and moral perversion which inevitahly results from imperfect culti-
vation. For, really, atheism as a faith is manifestly incredible. Who
ever knew an atheist from conviction—a man who, using his senses and
understanding, yet believed there was no God? It is only the fool that
hath said so in his heart, and wished it might be true.

The accusation against Fichte was founded upon an article which he
published in the ‘Philosophical Journal’ for 1798, ‘On the Grounds of our
‘Faith in a Divine Government of the World.’ Jn this he examines the
true foundations of our belief in regard to a moral government of the
universe; not, indeed, for the purpose of establishing faith by demon-
stration, but to shew the fundamental elements of a faith already subsistent
in man, and indestructibly rooted in his nature. The absurd charge of
atheism must have originated from an utter misapprehension of the writer's
purpose; which, so far from controverting the existence and superiuten-
dency of a moral ruler, was solely directed to inculcate clearer and more
comprehensive conceptions respecting his attributes and supremacy. Into
further particulare of the calumny we have here no space to enter, and can
only mention that the matter was brought before the court at Weimar for
investigation, and that the proceedings terminated with a decision suffi-
ciently exonerating Fichte from the charge preferred against him, though
a strong disapprobation was expressed in regard to the ‘imprudence’
whereof he was considered chargeable in giving publicity to his dectrines
in terms offensive to the popular understanding. ‘Dissatisfied with the
qualified character of the decision, Fichte resigned his professorship at the
university, and indignantly quitted Jena. ai

CYUIAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

In the summer of 1799 we find him in Berlin, writiug Lis book on the
t Destiny of Man.’ In the progress of this work he took a deeper glance
into religion than he had ever done before. In allusion to it he says:
‘In me the emotions of the heart proceed only from perfect intellectual
clearness; it cannot be but that the clearness I have now attained on this
subject shall also: take possession of my heart. To this disposition is to
be ascribed in a great measure my steadfast cheerfulness, and the mildness
with which I look upon the injustice of my opponents. I do not believe
that without this dispute, and its evil consequences, I should ever have
come to this clear insight aud this disposition of heart which | now enjoy;
and sọ the violence we have experienced has had a result which sad
you nor J can reasonably regret.’ 50 writes he to the good frau Johanne
still Jett behind at Jena. F ichte seems to have widerstood what cae
speate met when be said; ‘There is a soul of gooduess in things esil,
would men observingly distil it ou.

[lis economical circumstances, meanwhile, were none of the brightest.
Towards tho end of the year, however, he succeeded in removing ms
family to Berlin, in which place he thenceforth continued to reside. lere,
surrounded by a ‘small circle of friends worthy ot his attachment and
steem, he appears to have lived for some time privately aud happily,
‘cultivating literature upon a little oatineal’——like the illustrious projectors
of the ‘ Edinburgh Review. Uninterrupted by public duties, he applied
himself diligently io the perfecting of his philosuphy. At the close of
1799 he published his ‘ Destiny of Man;’ and durmg the two following
years he was occupied with certain prelinmary treatises, designed to pre-
pare the public mind for the complete reception of his doctrines, by shew-
ing their application to subjects of general interest. These mtrodue tory
writings he intended to follow up with a mere strict and complete exposi-
tion of his svientitic method, designed solely fur the philosophic reader.
This purpose, however, was for a time postponed, owing partly, it would
secm, to the doubts which he entertained respecting the best mode of com-
municating with the public, and partly, it is said, to his personal dissatis .
faction with the reception which his works had hitherto received. For
one reason or another, he refrained from publishing anything ror the space
of six years, with ihe exception of ono or two miuor worhs of a eontro-
versial character which appeared in 1801.

Fichte, i ertheless, could not remain altogether inactive, nor restrict
himself wholly to a coutemplarive life. Shut out, as he conceived, trom
the cis public. he sought to collect around him a listening one, to
whom he might verbally impart such message as he had. ‘This, indeed, is
said to have always been his favourite mode of communication; as iu the
levture-room he fond a freer scope for his peculiar powers than the form
of a literary work would admit of. A circle of pupils was gradually
gathered about him in Berlin, to whom from time to time he delivered
private lectures. Many distinguished scholars aud statesmen were also
amoug his auditory, it being soon generally understood that Fichte was a
man worth going to hear. There, accordingly, for awhile, in his own
hired lecture-room, he addressed fit audiences on some of the toughest
subjects that could engage the understanding.

In 1804, through the influence of certain ministerial friends, he was

26

TICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.

appointed professor of philosophy at the university of Erlangen, with pri-
vilege to return to Berlin during wiuter to continue his lectures in that
city; and in this new appointment he achieved as brilliant a success as he
had formerly gained at Jena. Here he addressed, to all the students of
the university, his memorable lectures on the ‘Nature of the Scholar.’
These he subseqnently published as an amended edition of a former course
on the same subject which he bad given to the publie, twelve years beture,
whilst resident at Jona. Iu these siugular disquisitions the characteristics
and duties of the scholar are deduced with a rigorous scientific precision,
and presented, as Carlyle has said, ‘in all their sacredness and grandeur,
with an austcre brevity more impressive than any rhetoric.’

ichte’s outward history is now for some time undistinguished by any-
thing of gencral interest: we accordingly pass over a, miiuber of minor
details, to contemplate his attitude and behaviour under new circumstances
of trouble and privation. Tn 1800, the dominion of Napoleon had become
extended over nearly the whole of Germany: and Prussia, which alone
maintained its Independence, was surrounded on all sides by his armies or
auxiliaries. While preparatious were in progress to oppose the advances
of the enemy, Iichte made an application to the king to be permitted to
accompany the troops in the capacity of patriotic orater— thinking he
night, by torce of eloguenm 2, inspire his fighting countrymen with some
additional courage and a resolute invincibility of resistance. The pro-
posal was hononrably received, but declined as incompatible with military
arrangements. The impending struggle, moreover, was very briefly settled :
the invader marching successtMly trom Auerstadt and Jena, and so onward
to a triumphant occupation of Berlm. This event rendered it necessary
for all who had identified themselves with the interests of their country
io seek refuge in flight or concealment. Fichte resolved nut to tender
submission to the conqueror, and secing no especial beauty in remaining to
be shot as a rebellious partisan of a vanquished cause, timcously betook
hinself to cover. Leaving his wife to take charge of his houschold, he with
his triend Hufeland Hed beyond the Oder. Awaiting the issue of the war,
the two took up their residence at Konigsberg, where Fichte was so far
fortunaic as to get appoluted provisional professor of philosophy during
his stav. In Konigsherg University he accordingly lectures throughout
the winter with bis usual ability and zeal.

As wax natural in the case, the good wife’Johanna many times entreats
him to return home to Berlin; the French soldicry proving nowise tronble-
some to quietly-disposed people, but being, on the whole, and cspevially
the officers, rather amiable fellows. Fichte, notwithstanding, cannot be
prevailed on to return, but obstinately declares it to be his duty to eubmit
to every privation and discomfort rather than give an indirect sanction to
the presence of the enemy by sitting down quietly under their dorainion,
even could he do so with perfect safety to himself. ‘Such a returning,’
said he, ‘would be directly contradictory of the declarations made in my
addresses to the king, out of which my present circumstances have resulted.
And if no other keep me to my word, it is just so much the more impera-
tive on me to hold myself to it. Jt is precisely when other scholars of
note in our country are.wavering that he who has been hitherto true should
stand firmer in his aprightness.’ m

2

CIIAMBERS’S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

This was bravely spoken. But now, on the 8th of February 1807,
the battle of Eylau rendered Konigsberg no longer safe as a residence:
were it not, therefore, well to quit quarters there, and repair to others
somewhat more remote? Tichte thigks so, and accordingly removes to
Copenhagen. Thither he arrives on the 9th of July, ‘having heen detained
for several wecks at Memel and at sea by unfavourable winds.’ It is
ordained, however, that he shall not long remain there; for peace between
Fatherland and the enemy is shortly afterwards concluded, Berlin evacuated,
the gallantries of French soldiers suddenly cut short, and towards the
end of August the philosopher is again stationed under his hired roof-
tree, with his fanily, in the Prussian capital.

With the establishment of peace, the Prussian government sought to
repair the loss of political significance by fostering among its citizens the
desire of intellectual distinction and a spirit of freer speculation. It seemed
needful to ‘rebuild the temple of German independence’ on altogether new
foundations. The liberty which had been swept away must be succecded
by a fresh manifestation proceeding from a deeper principle, and nurtured
by a nobler means of culture. One of the first modes which suggested
itself for the attainment of this end was the establishment at Berlin of ‘a
new school of higher cducation, free from the imperfections of the old
universities, from whence, as from the spiritnal heart of the community, a
current of life and energy might be poured through all its members.’
Fichte was chosen as the man best fitted for the work, and unlimited powcr
was given him to frame for the proposed university a constitntion. No
employment. could have been more cong€nial to Fichte’s inclinations.
Here, indeed, had arrived at last the long-dcsired opportunity of developing
a systematic plan of instruction founded on the spiritual clements of
humanity. He entered with ardour upon the undertaking; and by the
end of 1807 his plan, well digested and arranged, was ready for adoption:
though the university was not actually established until 1810. Then,
however, Fichte was clected rector; and it is said that during the two
years in which he held the ofice, he Jaid for the institution the foundation
of the character which it still maintains—that of being the best regulated,
as well as one of the most efficient schools in Germany.

The course of events brings us down to the year of 1812, when the
commotions and contentions of the European continent are working out
a series of new and significant results. Napoleon the Grand, hitherto
conceived to be imvincible, has become at length Napoleon overthrown ;
Russian snows and Moscow conflagrations contributing to that unantici-
pated consummation. Now, it scems, the time has come when, by the
blessing of Providence, and a scasonable use of gunpowder, the Germans
may recover their lamented independence. Wise in his generation, the
king of: Prussia enters into an alliance with the Russian emperor, and
straightway from Breslau sends forth a proclamation, calling upon the
young and active men ofthe country to arm themselves for the restora-
tion of its liberty. The Germans aforetime have suffered much defeat,

“in spite of skilful and experienced commanders; nevertheless they do
not hesitate to answer to the summons, but with grim consent march
forwards to fight for freedom, or in default thereof, to get themselves

patriotically shot }
28

WICHTE: A BIOGRAPILY.

An earnest Fichte shall now assuredly have a chance of exhibiting his
mettle. We renews his application to be appointed nislitary orator, that so-
he might share the dangers and animate the courage of the ‘army of
liberation.’ But there are difficulties of the insuperable sort which exclude
him from any such appointment. It seems that of all that warlike oratory
with which he is inwardly and so intensely burning, he cannot get himself
satisfactorily delivered. Jn which exigency it appears best to remain
stationary in Berlin, and there lecture ‘On the Idea of a True War.’ Meau-
time he and other patriot professors cap organise an army of reserve of the
volunteer description, and announce its readiness to contribute persoually,
when walled for, to the defence of Fatherland. Paiofessors aud literati also
institute, on novel principles, a sort of impromptu life-assurance society,
whereby the widows and children of snch as may fall in Jattle shall bo
provided for by the amenities of survivors.

but who is this stealing upon us in the solemn night-time with moody,
sinister aspect, and air of aflrightened courage, like one who had recently
killed a brother sinner in a duel, and needed absolution? Thin we discern,
after due scrutiny, to be a veritable Captain Swing, or untimely resurrec-
tion of Guy Paux—student of philosophy notwithstanding—who, taking
counsel of the powers of darkness, las coneeived a plan for firing the
magazine of the enemy by stealth, and thas blowing them compendiously
out of the planet. Fichte, to whom the scheme is revealed, will be no
partner in such atrocity. With cool alacrity he is off by break of day to
the superintendent of police, and has the whole abominable business
timeously prevented, If the powers on high are indifferent to interfere in
the defence of right, the devil shall in no case be invited to condescend
with his assistance! The sacred canse of freedom shall not be sullied by
that kind of partnership.

Captain Swing retires with his tinder-box to the subterranean shades ef
an ignominious obscurity, and Fichte meantime continues lecturing on the
perils and disasters of the times. ‘ With a clearness and euergy of thought
which seemed to increase with the difficulties and danger of his country,’
he keeps alive in the people an unynenchable animosity to the compromis:
of liberty, or to any terms or conditions of peace which did not recognise
the unlimited independence of the German kingdoms. Austria, it is true,
mediates, ind persuades to compromise, whereby ensues only a nominal
independence: but a ‘brave and earnest people,’ seeking for ‘ true freedom,’
express unanimous dissatisfaction with the counterfeit, and are obviously
inclined towards violation of the amnesty. Hostilities are accordingiy
recommenced, and go on through the autumn and winter months of 1813.

It was at the commencement of this campaign that the multitudinous
students of Berlin wore one day assembled to hear Professor Fichte lec:ure
on the imposing topic of ‘Duty.’ There is breathless waiting and expecta-
tion ; whispered prurient criticisms on the great master, whom all arc never-
theless met reverently to hear; interchange of college gossip, reminiscunces
of Burschen jollity, small talk and scandal, wrath and effervescence of
independency, vapid jests and commonplace solemnities, with a marvellous
redolence of stale tobacco; here and there a flash of native wit of charac-
teristic brilliancy, but oftener only an involuntary parody of some ‘oftier
speculation, stated in a phraseology so vague as to make the pen i

CHAMBENRS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

profound, and like one who would probably understand his subject but for
the inpediment of stupidity. Such, as near as we can guess, is the scene.
and the occasion. Behold, however, Fichte has arrived, calm and modest
as a lion, standing in unconscious lordliness under the shade of forest-
trees. There is hush of misccllaneous tongues, and a simultaneous pre-
paration for listening-—as when the sun shines forth upon the hemisphere,
provident householders disperse their candlc-lights. Ile lectures with his
usual dignity and calmness, rising ‘at intervals into fiery bursts of elo-
quence, but governed always by a wondrous tact of logic, such as few men
could equal. From the topic of Duty in the abstract he leads his
audience to the present state of national affairs. On them he glows and
expands with animation; the rolling of drums without meanwhile fre-
quently drowning his voice, but inspiring him with fresh spirit te proceed. .
He paints the desolation of his country —the withering hidcousness of
usurpation— the boundless ravages and ambition of the foe; he swells with
a sublime hatred and indignation against oppressors; and passionately
enforces it as the duty of every one before him to consecrate his individual
strength and faculty to the rescue of his native land. ‘ Gentlemen,’ he
exclaims finally, ‘this course of lectures will be suspended ti] the end of
the campaign. We will resume them in a free country, or die in the
attempt to recover her liberties ! The hal] reverberates with loud resporttive
shontings ; the rolling of the outward drums is answered by the clapping
of innumerable hands, and the stampings of a thousand feet; every German
heart there present is moved to resolution, and pants fur conquest or for
martyrdom. The orator, like the fabled Orpheus, by the impassioucd
melody ot his words has achieved the miracle of moving stoncs-—stones.
reputed to have been quarried out of Harzgebirge rock, and shaped by
supreme powers into Saxon men. Fichte descends from his place, passes
through the crowd, and places himself in the ranks of a corps of volunteers
then departing for the army.

The war went on in the neighbourhood of Berlin. The victories of
Grossbeer and Dennewiz secured the capital from danger; but from its
nearness to the scene of action it became a gcneral hospital for the sick and
wounded. The publie institutions for their reception were speedily
crowded, and soon entirely unequal to the demands made upon their means
of relief. "Fhe authorities, therefore, called upon the Inhabitants to come to
their assistance with extraordinary contributions, and solicited the wuinen
to take charge of the sick. Foremost among those that devoted themselves
to this amiable ministry was the wife of Fichte, who, as a patient nurse
aud dispensing angel of gruel and consolation, exerted herself sedulously
for the space of five months. In the distribution of clothes, and food, and
medicine—in the exercise of pious offices around the beds of the dying and
unknown, by generous and womanly solicitude in many ways—she day by
day contributed to the alleviation of no inconsiderable suffering and sorrow.

As a consequence of her long uninterrupted exertions in the hospitals,
she began at length to feel alarming symptoms of illness. In January
1814 she was attacked by a violent nervous fever, which had becn preva-
Jent among the wounded. It shortly became so dangerous as to leave
hardly a hope of her recovery. On the very day when she was in greatest
peril, Fichte, who had been engaged in close and assiduous attendance

ov

FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.

upon her from the commencement of her illness, was compe to leave
her, to deliver the first of a course of lectures which he had previously
announced. With wondrous selt-cominand he spoke for two hours on the
most abstract subjects, scarcely hopmez te find, oe kis return, his beloved
companion still alive. This, as it happene d, was the crisis of her disorder.
With transports of gratitude and jov be tual led the indeations of recovery 5
those who witnessed the excess of lus delight w pa alone able tu estimate
the almost superhuman power ot control whicl he had exercised while
engaged in his academical vocation.

Beautiful are the tremblings of sfiection, and the graceful tenderness
of thos: who, afier danger or auxiety, look thenkfully in eadh otier
face; on delivery irom fear. Jwautiful the new-born flowerage of Jove
that springs from past calamity. Yet ofta do at happen, m ovr
world of vicissitude and care, that at the very tiur hen we have Lee:
graciously relieved iron apprehension, then dues: e new and ievrible
distress befall as. Tven so it was tated to þe u As bis wife was being
restored to him with bealll, Fichte himsel! c Ullo it the uvfuetion. Ha tirst
sylupfom was a nervous sleeplessness, which iad the effect of baths
ar the rewedic apphed ter ats relief. Then he was attached
by a wild delirium, in which the wemories of past activity mingled
Spa With the phantasina of present vain, The valant soul ir

s bewilderment held contlict with imagmary es, and struggled wih
i iy passion against th» invisible furics of a stempered taucy. At

times he voneeived that ouly will and alaan Te ieguied to Conquer
the discase, and would strive desperately to resist the insidious agonies
which were vanquishing his strength. In ove of his lucid intervals, which
were bricf and seldom, he was tola of Bluchar’s passage of the Rhine, and
the tinal expulsion of the French from Germany. Thou rose before him
resplendent visions of future blessedness for Fatherland, and he imagined
himscif to be contending in the fray for the restoration of its liberties. AL!
ihis feverish excitement aud restlessness wore away his life. Once when
his son was approaching him with medicine, he said, with a look of much
affection, ‘Leave it aloue; J need no more of that: [feel that Pam wells
He passed some hours iu profonud and unbroken sleep; nevertheless, or
the cleventh duy of his Hness, duriag the might of the 27th of January
1814, he died. He dic@in his tifty-second year, while his hodily aut
mental faculties were as vet unimpaired by age; his fine black ha'r
unshaded by any signs of gray; his step still firm, «nd his whole an-
pearance Vigolous end well sustained. ‘So robust an intellect. -u soul ge
cali, g0 lofty, massive, and commanding,’ the world shall not see again for
many days.

And so, reader, we have como abruptly to the strong man’s end. We
have followed him—not without a sympathising admiration— through the
changes and chauces of his life; and now we must pause in reverence over
the untimely g grave of his mortality. His life has been ‘a battle ard a
march’ against the principalities of evil and tem} tation—a conlict with
error and insincerity, in others and in himself; and now the valiant soul
has attained to its rest, the strong courageous fighter goes home with
victury. ‘The doctrine which he taught, and prac-ically “asserted by his

lite, is a justification of that higher hope which dawns in all times upon
ol

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.

{earnest and enthusiastic souls—that lofty and commanding faith in the
Integrity of the moral principle in man, which seeks to transform the world
“Mato the image of the ideal. If it be true, as has been said, that the whole
-< value of history and biography is to increase our self-trust, by demonstrat-
“ing what is possible to man, then shall the life of this man be an encourage-
„ment and indication to them who would strive to fashion their own in
accordance with the cternal realities of things. In severe rectitude, in
endurance that would not shrink, m energy, and perseverance, and resolu-
tion, in incorruptible integrity and devout heroism of character, he is
admirable for ever: ‘as a man approved by action and suffering, in his
life and in his death, he ranks with a class of men who were common only
in better ages than ours,’ but who were needed in no age more imperativery
than now. The grand moral of his life, did any one still need to ask it, is
to shew the possibilities of worth and virtue which are yet open to other
men, Farewell, thou brave Fichte! and may the love of good men every-
where embalm thee in their memory!* -+

* The facts related in this Paper are principally derived from a Life of Fichte by
his son, The writer hus been partly aided in shaping them to the present result by
au English ‘Memoir? by William Smith; whose excellent translations of several of
Fichte's writings he takes the opportanity of recommending tu the attention uf
studious and intulhgent readers.

END OF YOL. IX.